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THERE WAS A MELEE GOING ON ALL AROUND THE WAGGONS 



THE YEAR ONE 

A PAGE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION 



ILL US T R A TED 


BY JOHN BLOUNDELLE-BURTON 

Atcthor of “ Across the Salt Seas,” (( A 
Bitter Heritage” “ The Seafarers ’ etc. 


NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
NINETEEN HUNDRED AND ONE 

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THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

AUG. 29 1901 

Copyright ektrv 

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COPVjg 


Copyright, 1901 

By John Bloundelle-Burton 





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“ Autrefois nous nous plaisantions de V An 
Premier , mais la male annee premiere etait pour 
nous — pauvres prisonniers et captifs ! — terrible 
et dechirante , et sans plaisanterie quelconque — 

Journal d’un Prevenu. 



Preface 


The action of the following romance takes 
place principally in Paris at that period of the 
French Revolution when the smouldering hostil- 
ity which, from the year 1789, had been testified 
against Royalty, and Royalism had at last broken 
into open flame, and when the Reign of Terror 
was introduced by the massacres of the Swiss 
Guard and the massacres in the prisons — and 
notably in those of La Force and L’Abbaye. 

dSTo romance could possibly be written with 
any propriety of sequence which should embrace 
the whole of that hideous period — a period as re- 
markable as it was revolting — and I have, there- 
fore, confined this narrative to that space of time 
during which the above mentioned events took 
place. I have also, with a view of not encroach- 
ing on the domain properly belonging to the 
historian, refrained from introducing any of the 
most striking figures amongst the Revolutionists 
as characters in this book, but have, instead, con- 
tented myself with depicting as truthfully as is 
in my power the effect, for evil, which those 
figures produced. 


VI 


PREFACE 


To do so I have gone entirely to French writ- 
ers and, above all, to French writers of the 
period ; while making use principally, and wher- 
ever it has been possible, of the records left be- 
hind by those who had lain in deadly peril and 
who, after having escaped by the mercy of 
heaven, wrote careful memoirs and diaries of 
their trials and tribulations. Every private 
family of any note in France is full of such 
records as these, to say nothing of the vast 
stores of literature on the subject with which 
the State libraries and museums are filled ; and 
to more than one French family I am indebted 
not only for a sight of some of these treasures 
but, also, for many extracts willingly made and 
forwarded to me. 


J. B-B. 


Contents 


CHAP. PAGE 

I. LA MARQUISE D’AUBRAY DE BRI- 

COURT 1 

II. AN OMEN, PERHAPS ... 13 

III. THE CAPTAINS .... 25 

IV. THE OLD ANTAGONISM . . 37 

V. ADELE SATIGNY .... 50 

VI. FAMILY HISTORY ... 63 

VII. ADELE TELLS HER STORY . . 75 

VIII. CONTEMPT IS HATE — ASLEEP . 87 

IX. UPON THE ROAD .... 99 

X. DRAWING NEAR .... Ill 

XI. HELVETIORITM FIDEI AC VIRTUTI 123 

XII. FAREWELL LUCIENNE D’AUBRAY 135 

XIII. THE SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT . 147 

XIV. THE GENERAL FEAR . . 158 

XV. MARGOT VERAC . . . .170 

XVI. DANSONS LA CARMAGNOLE ! . 182 

XVII. THE INHABITANTS OF LA FORCE 195 

XVIII. A MESSAGE .... 205 

XIX. UPON THE TRACK . . . 218 

XX. PRISON WALLS .... 232 

XXI. “ SHE IS NO MARQUISE *' . . 244 

XXII. FOR HIS SAKE .... 257 

XXIII. THE SECOND SEPTEMBER . . 269 

vii 


CONTENTS 


viii 


CHAP. 


PAGE 

XXIV. 

LES SEPTEMBRISEURS 

. 282 

XXY. 

DUBROC IS ABSENT 

. 296 

XXVI. 

THE DOMICILIARY VISIT 

. 312 

XXVII. 

l’argent un’a pas d’odeur 

. 324 

XXVIII. 

A BAS LA JUSTICE 

. 335 

XXIX. 

THE GRIEFS OF LONG AGO . 

. 348 


The Year One 


CHAPTER I 

LA MARQUISE D’AUBRAY DE BRICOURT. 

Because of the hot mist which hung over the 
sea upon this June evening, whereby the waves 
seemed as though they were smoking ; because, 
too, of the dense bank of clouds — purple in some 
places, leaden-coloured in others — which lay low 
on the horizon in the direction of the Channel 
Islands, the boat which was making her way to- 
wards the dunes was almost an indistinguishable 
speck. A speck that might (as she sometimes 
went a point or half a point off her course, and 
thereby caused her foresail to gleam like the 
under part of a seagull’s wing) have been mis- 
taken for a buoy tossing on the waves, or, to ac- 
customed eyes, might have appeared to be what 
it really was, a ship’s launch coming ashore. And 
now, as the boat came nearer, even the uniniti- 
ated, if any such could have been found in Brit- 
tany, would have known that this was actually 
the case. With a glass, if not with the naked 
eye, the onlooker would have noted the gilt 


2 


THE YEAR ONE 


sailor’s knots on her bows surrounding the badge 
— a dragon — of the vessel of war to which she 
belonged ; he w r ould have seen by the very man- 
ner in which the sailors dragged their oars 
through the water that the rowers were men-of- 
war’s men, while, also, the observer would per- 
haps have understood that although the figure 
which sat in the stern was enveloped in a rough 
tarpaulin jacket, the hood of which covered all 
but the wearer’s features, it was that of an offi- 
cer. An officer because, in these times, which, 
although England and France did not happen to 
be at war, were still uncertain ones, neither petty 
officers nor men were allowed to go ashore in 
charge of the boats. 

The two countries were not yet at daggers 
drawn in this month of June, 1792, but were 
very likely to be so ere long, everybody thought. 
Nay, if all should turn out as was expected, it 
was deemed highly probable that soon the whole 
civilised world would be up in arms against 
France, in its determination to put down once 
and forever the horrible state of anarchy and 
blood-lust which was beginning to prevail in that 
distracted country. 

But at present England had done nothing — ex- 
cept hold out a promise of help to the Royalists ; 
while Pitt’s assurance that the Bourbon family 
should never come to harm nor the old nobility 
of France be destroyed had neither been fulfilled 
nor seemed likely of fulfillment. Wherefore, as 


D’AUBRAY DE BRICOURT 


3 


the launch of the “Dragon” swept under the 
bows of the French corvette “ Le Furieux,” which 
was lying with her sails unbent a mile from shore 
(to prevent les emigres from escaping), the usual 
courtesy salutations were duly exchanged. The 
English officer in command of the launch touched 
the spot where his cap doubtless was beneath the 
tarpaulin hood, the tricolour was dipped at the 
ensign-staff of the corvette ; the sea-services of 
two supposed-to-be friendly nations interchanged 
politenesses with one another. 

Yet beneath his breath the English officer 
muttered words that might have been “ Blood- 
thirsty vagabonds ” or “ Republican savages,” or 
something of the kind ; the first lieutenant of 
“Le Furieux,” whose watch it was, muttered to 
himself “ Fichtre jpour ces Anglais ” and also 
cursed ces Anglais soundly. “ They shelter the 
emigres by thousands,” he continued to mumble ; 
“ and protect all who have got into the islands or 
crossed the channel. The English Channel as 
they call it — why ? It washes our shores as well 
as theirs ! But then, they are English — bullies 
and brigands.” 

After which splenetive expressions — which did 
no Englishman alive one jot of harm — he con- 
tinued to walk his deck and to spit to leeward, 
perhaps because he was a sailor, or perhaps be- 
cause, on that side, England lay. 

Meanwhile, or rather before he had finished 
his objurgations, the “ Dragon’s ” launch had got 


4 


THE YEAR OJSTE 


ashore by running into a little creek, or river 
coming from inland through the dunes, a river 
about which there were pleasing fictions told of 
salmon entering it from the sea, and of fat 
speckled trout which might be caught by those 
who would give themselves the trouble to do so ; 
but as remarkable fish stories have always been 
told, not only in France but elsewhere from time 
immemorial, this agreeable legend need not be 
regarded. Then, the mainsail and foresail hav- 
ing been lowered with true man-of-war precision 
at the right moment, and the launch having 
fetched alongside, the casks which had been 
brought ashore to be filled with water were 
hoisted out, and the task of replenishing them 
from the supposititious salmon river promptly 
commenced. For the “ Dragon was cruising in 
that channel which bore the name so offensive to 
the French first lieutenant, for certain purposes 
that need little explanation, since it may easily 
be conceived that the soon-to-be One and Indivisi- 
ble Government was not too polite to any of our 
countrymen or countrywomen whom it found 
upon the seas or their coasts, while, as the vessel 
wanted fresh water whenever she could get it, it 
was the habit of the “ Dragon ” to send ashore 
for it frequently. 

The dunes, through which the creek ran, 
formed a portion of a wild, desolate, and barren 
region stretching an indefinite distance along the 
coast, and, although partly covered by the sea at 


D’AUBRAY DE BRICOURT 


5 


particular times and at particularly high tides, 
they were more often than not bare and exposed 
— as at the present season. 

Piled into irregular ridges and heaps, ordinarily 
fifty to sixty feet high, though, in some cases, 
considerably higher, these hills or mounds, which 
are the absolute dunes themselves, seemed to 
stand as evidences of the extraordinary power 
which that mighty monster, the ocean wind, 
could exert against all things smitten by its 
force. For, here, it was plain enough to be seen 
that, down the long roll of almost forgotten 
centuries, this wind had gradually been driving 
inland the sand and shells which, in their turn 
and as their mass became compact, were them- 
selves driving further inland all human life. 
Trees that had once grown upon this sandy 
shore, which, if not very vast nor stately, had at 
least been living vegetation, now exhibited to 
the onlooker nothing but their dead topmost 
branches above the sand which had enveloped all 
below those branches, and showed thereby how 
the process of invasion and destruction was going 
on continuously. A little further inland might 
also be seen, peeping above the accumulation of 
which the lower ridges were composed, the 
broken and burst-in roofs of what had once been 
cattle sheds or outhouses — though gone was the 
farm itself to which they must have at some 
former time belonged ! And, still further in, but 
on a slight rising of the ground, was a church, 


6 


THE YEAR ONE 


shut up and, to all appearances, deserted. For 
the sand was close up to the churchyard wall, 
while some of it had crept over into the church- 
yard itself, and was gradually, in an insidious 
but sure and certain manner (a manner as certain 
and as sure as the death which had already 
taken all those who lay within the graves, and 
would, in time, take all who walked and breathed 
upon this earth and all who were ever to come), 
covering over and enveloping the graves them- 
selves as, soon, it would envelop the grave 
stones and, some day, the church itself, even to 
the cross above the topmost pinnacle of the 
tower. 

Slowly, and because he had nothing whatever 
to do until all the water-casks should he filled, 
which would not be for at least an hour, the lieu- 
tenant who had come in command of the launch 
had strolled up the incline of sand towards this 
now neglected place of worship, and stood re- 
garding the work that the elements had already 
performed, while contemplating and understand- 
ing quite well what further destruction the never 
ceasing and untiring wind would eventually per- 
form. He was calculating, too, how many years 
it would take for the church to be slowly sur- 
rounded and choked and engulfed by the huge 
sandy billows. 

Yet he started with a feeling of faint surprise, 
of almost, it might be said, languid astonishment, 
at seeing that in this graveyard — so doubly typ- 


D’AUBKAY DE BBICOUKT 


7 


ical of death, since not only did it contain the re- 
mains of the forefathers of the vicinity, but also 
that edifice and its surroundings which were, in 
their turn, doomed to as certain an extinction as 
those who lay beneath the sand-covered sod — 
there was still a sign, an evidence, of human life. 
Not much of a sign, it is true, nor an evidence of 
strong robust vitality, but still life, vitality, it- 
self ; life and vitality as expressed and testified 
in the figure of an old, bent man, upon whose 
head there was scarcely any hair beneath the cap 
of Liberty which adorned his shiny poll, and upon 
whose face was a mass of deeply indented lines 
and wrinkles. 

“ What does he do ? ” muttered the young lieu- 
tenant, George Hope, to himself, as he regarded 
this old creature, who wore over his eyes an 
enormous pair of goggles. “ He is at work chop- 
ping away at one of those tombstones, yet one 
would suppose they were scarcely worth repair. 
They must have stood a long while, seeing that 
they are black and grimed with age, while surely 
none are buried here now. The earth, when it is 
not covered with sand, shows plainly that it has 
not been disturbed for many a day.” 

Then, seeing that this ancient creature placed 
a chisel upon the tombstone he was busy at, and 
struck at its handle with a mallet, so that in a 
moment there appeared a white strip on the dis- 
coloured stone which caused Hope to think of an 
inch of white ribbon laid upon a square of dirty 


8 


THE YEAR ONE 


grey, lie crossed the church wall and went to- 
wards the man. He was able to do so by simply 
placing one of his feet in front of him and draw- 
ing the other after it, and then leaping lightly 
down on the other side, since the sand was quite 
level with the top of the wall on the side towards 
the sea, while, in the churchyard itself, that 
which had been blown over was everywhere ris- 
ing higher and higher. 

“ Mon ami” he said to the old man, in very 
excellent French (he had been at school in Jersey 
for some years), “ what work do you find to do 
here, if I may ask ? Surely you are not going to 
inscribe the name of some recently dead person 
on that tomb ? ” 

“I inscribe nothing,” the old man said, without 
glancing up at the } r oung officer ; “ instead, I de- 
stroy that which is there. You can see for your- 
self.” 

Looking at the tombstone, as suggested by the 
old man, George Hope did see that it was as the 
other had said. He saw upon the stone in ques- 
tion that, between the words Ci-git which fol- 
lowed the oval form of its head, and a name 
which was easily to be read (the name of Lucille 
d’Aubray de Bricourt, as well as the date of 
1649) there was that freshly made white strip — 
or rather whiter strip — which had been caused 
by the chisel and mallet. 

“You erase something,” he said, “something 
that has been on this stone since 1649. It is a 


D’AUBRAY DE BRICOURT 


9 


long time, almost a hundred and fifty years. 
That which has been there so long might have 
remained, one would have thought. I do not 
understand.” 

“ What was there,” said the old man, with a 
little sniggering laugh, “ described and spoke of 
a thing which has existed until now, or almost 
now, but no longer. Therefore I erase the name, 
the description, as the thing is itself erased for- 
ever, by order of the government, of the Legisla- 
tive Assembly,” and he touched his Phrygian-like 
cap with the chisel. 

“ I understand,” the young officer said, “ it was 
a title ; and the Assembly wars even against such 
a thing as that — the title and description of a 
woman so long since dead. Surely it might have 
remained without harming any, even the glorious 
Assembly, and even though there is no longer any 
noblesse .” 

“ Except in the human heart,” the old man 
said, quoting the clap-trap of the Republican ora- 
tors. “ Except there.” 

“ Yes,” said Hope, with a faintly contemptuous 
sneer, “it is there, doubtless. The new rulers 
prove it daily — hourly.” Then, concluding these 
reflections, he asked, “ What might the title of the 
poor dead woman — dead so long ago — have been ? ” 

“That of marquise. Marquise d’Aubray de 
Bricourt. A great family. A proud family. A 
wicked family, even here in Brittany, where the 
nobles were not so bad as elsewhere. Now, 


10 


THE YEAR ONE 


there is neither marquis nor marquise ; no titles 
whatever, and,” lifting his chisel and mallet, 
44 neither are there any 4 Des.’ They, too, are an 
aristocratic appellation, and there are no aristo- 
crats,” whereupon he struck out the 44 de ” before 
the name Bricourt. 

44 And the 4 d ’ before Aubray ? ” exclaimed 
Hope, still contemptuously. 44 ’Tis the same 
thing. Should it not go too ? ” 

44 Away it goes,” said the old man. And in a 
second it also had gone. 

44 Pleasant labour, and evidently to your taste,” 
said the lieutenant. 44 Well ! doubtless there are 
other tombs of the offending aristocrats left for 
you to work upon ; ” and he strolled away, intent 
upon going round the church and regarding it 
from all sides, since it was more or less of a 
curiosity owing to the fate that was rapidly over- 
taking it. 

44 Ay,” mumbled the old man , 44 pleasant labour, 
indeed. And there are scores of Aubrays inside 
the church and out. While as for you,” and he 
glanced at the back of the young officer as he 
disappeared behind the buttress, 44 well ! your 
garments show what you are. An English sailor 
— un officier. Therefore, an aristocrat, too, since 
all English officers are that, they say. Pity ’tis 
the people do not rise in your land and slay the 
noblesse as they do here. It would at least stop 
all of you from endeavouring to assist our down- 
fallen tyrants.” 


D’AUBEAY DE BEICOURT 


11 


Hope had disappeared behind the buttress 
spoken of, intent upon his walk round the church 
and any view which he might obtain of the in- 
terior by looking through the windows, a thing 
that was becoming easier every day — every hour 
— as the accumulating sand raised the earth’s 
level higher and higher ; but, as he turned round 
the wall, he stopped amazed. For, to his as- 
tonishment, he came full upon a young woman 
behind that buttress who was bending forward 
in an attitude which could be mistaken for none 
other than the attitude of a person listening in- 
tently. Yet — listening to what! Surely not to 
the conversation he had been holding with the 
old workman, nor to the man’s contemptible 
gloatings over the downfall of all that had repre- 
sented the nobility and gentle birth of France. 
Surely not to that ! 

“ Madame,” he said, even as the lady — for lady 
she undoubtedly was, though dressed as plainly 
as any Breton farmer’s daughter might have 
been, “ I beg ten thousand pardons for coming so 
abruptly round that corner. Naturally, I could 
not know ” 

“Monsieur,” she said, interrupting him, even 
while at the same moment she abandoned the 
slight stooping, listening attitude she had previ- 
ously adopted, and now stood tall and erect be- 
fore him ; “ monsieur, this is no time for cour- 
teous phrases, though I recognise and appreciate 
those you have uttered. Monsieur, are you not 


12 


THE YEAR ONE 


the English officer who has come ashore from 
that ship out there ? That English war-ship ? ” 

“ Yes, madame, I have that honour.” 

“When do you return ? ” 

“Directly we have got all the water we re- 
quire.” 

“Will you assist me? I am in great need of 
assistance, I assure you.” 

“Madame may command any services I can 

offer her. Yet, I avow, I hardly know ” 

“Sir,” said the lady, while as she spoke she 
lowered her voice as though fearing that the old 
man at work in the graveyard might overhear 
her; “sir, will you take me to your ship? Will 
you give me a passage to England, or even to 
Jersey only? I am desirous of fleeing out of 
France. I desire to become une emigree .” 


CHAPTER II 


AN OMEN, PERHAPS 

As Lieutenant Hope’s eyes rested upon this 
lady during the few seconds he was pondering 
what answer he should make to her strange re- 
quest, he observed that she was beautiful. Her 
hair was of a rich golden hue — so golden that it 
brought to his mind the recollection of ripening 
wheat-fields glistening beneath a brilliant sun, or 
— which was more prosaic ! — of new guineas fresh 
from the mint; her features were of that soft 
rounded cast which, by itself, confers beauty on 
those who possess it ; her eyes were of a sweet, 
clear grey that almost deepened into blue ; while 
her mouth was small and exquisitely shaped, the 
short upper lip completing her charms. For the 
rest, she was more tall than otherwise, and the 
possessor of a figure which in its outlines and full- 
ness left nothing to be desired. Indeed, in those 
few moments of George Hope’s meditations, he 
found himself thinking that this was a woman 
whose beauty should not be enveloped in the 
homely garments she wore, but rather in silks 
and satins, as well as be adorned with jewellery ; 
a woman more fitted to stand within the hall of 
13 


14 


THE YEAR ONE 


some ancient chateau and mingle with noble 
and illustrious guests than to be here, concealing 
herself, as undoubtedly she was doing, behind an 
old and ruined church, while clad in garments 
that were little better than those of a bourgeoise. 

“ You do not answer, monsieur,” the lady said, 
as those sweet eyes looked into his. “ Will you 
not grant my request, or is it impossible that you 
should do so ? ” 

“ It does not rest with me, madame,” George 
replied, speaking very slowly, and as though 
weighing every word before he uttered it. “ If 
it did, there would be no hesitation in my answer. 
But it is to the captain of my ship that the re- 
quest must be addressed. Without him — without 
his permission — I could not possibly act.” 

“ Hot even to save a woman ! ” 

“ Ah ! madame,” the young lieutenant ex- 
claimed, “ do not make it hard for me to answer 
you as I am forced to do. But our navy has its 
customs — the customs of the service — even as 
your own navy has ” 

“ Our navy!” the lady exclaimed, bitterly, 
“ our navy ! The navy of this so-called govern- 
ment.” 

“ Madame,” continued the young officer, who, 
if he had doubted before that the woman before 
him was of the Royalist side — of the aristocrats 
— could doubt it no longer ; “ madame, I can do 
this. I can call our boat away at once and re- 
turn to the ship. Then, also at once, I will con- 


15 


AN OMEN, PERHAPS 

vey your desire to the captain, your request to be 
taken on board as une emigree desiring to escape 
out of France.” 

44 Will he refuse or assent, do you think ? ” 

“ I think he will assent,” Hope replied, with a 
slight smile. “We are not at war with the 
Assembly — at present — but we are not friendly 
with it. Who can be, who can approve of 

its ” 

“ Murders ! ” 

“Yes — of its murders. I think,” Hope said 
again, “that the captain will assent. Then, if he 

does, I will bring the boat back for you ” 

“ God in heaven bless you ! ” 

“ And — and — it will be dark, or almost dark by 
then. The lookout in ‘ Le Furieux ’ will not ob- 
serve that we have a woman in the boat ” 

“ Could they, the men in 4 Le Furieux,’ prevent 
you and your men from taking me to the Eng- 
lish ship ? You — English sailors ! ” 

“ They could not perhaps prevent us from do- 
ing so, but, undoubtedly, they would try. There 
is a law against assisting emigrants to leave 
France, and, if I understand rightly , 4 Le Furieux ’ 
is here for the express purpose of preventing emi- 
grants from doing so. The Channel Islands are 
so close, and so very many of the French upper 
classes have escaped to them.” 

44 But you are English. English sailors ! And 
your ship lying out there is as large and power- 
ful as 4 Le Furieux.’ ” 


16 


THE YEAE ONE 


“It is not a question of the two ships, ma- 
dame,” said George Hope, with another slight 
smile and also a slight bow ; “ there would be no 
trouble about that. But, instead, the difficulty 
lies in getting to our ship. Madame will under- 
stand that when I take her off to-night, as I feel sure 
I shall do, we shall only be in a small boat which 
must pass under the bows of ‘Le Furieux’ as she 
has done on other occasions, and as she will do in 
half-an-hour from now when we return with the 
fresh water. She must do so because, if she did 
otherwise, suspicion would be instantly aroused 
at her taking a new course. Now, if ‘ Le 
Furieux’ knows we have a French subject on 
board when we do pass under those bows, she 
will undoubtedly call on us to stop and, if we do 
not obey, she will open fire on us and probably 
sink us.” 

“ But they must not know. And, surely, in 
the dark, they need not know.” 

“Precisely. Indeed, I assure you, madame, 
that if it were not for the daylight which is still 
with us, I would almost decide to take you now, 
so certain do I feel that our captain will receive 
you on board.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, you are very good. And, also, 
you are very thoughtful. I had forgotten that that 
vessel — that vessel of our new rulers,” and there 
was a world of scorn in the woman’s voice as she 
spoke, “ would undoubtedly intercept you. Well, 
so be it, monsieur. You will do what you say ; 


AN OMEN, PERHAPS U 

you will obtain your captain’s permission and 
come back for me ? ” 

“ I will endeavour to obtain the captain’s per- 
mission, as, I again say, I feel sure I shall ; and 
then madame may be very certain I will come 
back for her. While for safety’s sake we will come 
armed, as well as bring a jacket and cap for ma- 
dame to assume. With those on and the tarpaulin 
over — over — well, over madame’s hair there will 
be little danger of her being seen to be a 
woman.” 

“ Armed ! ” the lady said, meditatively, and at 
the same time apparently heedless of Hope’s 
later words. “ Armed ! Ah , Diev, / what am I 
doing. Exposing you to danger ! ” 

“Madame need not consider that,” the lieu- 
tenant replied with another bow ; “ danger is a 
sailor’s trade.” 

While, had he not been addressing a woman, 
and she a Frenchwoman, he would perhaps have 
added that English sailors did not count dan- 
ger as much of a factor in a contest between 
themselves and their hereditary enemies : but, 
because of her sex and her nationality, as well as 
because he was a gentleman, he forbore to say or 
hint any such thing. 

“ You do not demand to know who or what I 
am ; who the woman is who asks this service of 
you ? ” the lady said, now looking openly into 
George Hope’s eyes. 

“ Madame is a woman, and, since she is desirous 


18 


THE YEAR ONE 


of leaving France in these troublous times through 
which the country is passing, I am anxious to as- 
sist her. I do not know that anything more is 
required ; though if madame will honour me by 
giving her name, it would perhaps be as well. 
My captain may think I should have asked it, 
and that he should know to whom he is about to 
give a passage.” 

“ My name,” the lady said, “ is Lucienne, and 
I am the Marquise d’Aubray de Bricourt.” 

“ The Marquise d’Aubray de Bricourt ! ” ex- 
claimed Hope ; “ the Marquise d’Aubray de Bri- 
court ! ” 

“ Yes ! You speak as though you had heard it 
before, as though you knew it. Is it so ? ” 

“ I became acquainted with it a quarter of an 
hour ago for the first time,” replied Hope, while 
as he spoke his eyes stole round the buttress to- 
wards where the graveyard was, “ and now, by a 
coincidence, I hear it again. There is,” he con- 
tinued very gently, and with his eyes upon the 
ground, “ something being done to a — a — tomb- 
stone there. And — and ” 

“ There is being done to the tombstones of the 
dead much that is similar to what is being done 
to the living bearers, to the inheritors of their 
names. God ! ” the Marquise exclaimed, “ be- 
cause a hundred, two hundred, three hundred 
years ago, these people had title and rank, which 
was inscribed over their graves after they had 
departed, those graves are now to be defiled. 


AN OMEN, PEBHAPS 


19 


The living representatives are not enough to glut 
the ire of our tyrants, they must insult even the 
dead.” 

“ It is indeed an ignominious revenge, and 
doubtless one of the causes which leads Madame 
la Marquise to desire to quit temporarily a land 
in which such things can be done — to, if I may 
venture to speculate on such things — desire, per- 
haps — to join those who have left that land 
earlier.” 

“No,” Madame de Bricourt said, “no — it is 
not that ; I could have borne all as others are 
bearing it here in Brittany — as the Lescures, the 
Bochejacqueleins, the Dessessarts, a hundred 
others, are doing. I could have waited as they 
are waiting to bring about a counter revolution 
that shall crush these rebels forever — a restor- 
ation of the king to his throne. Heavens ! why 
did he ever fly, why did he not face them like a 
man ? But — but — there are other things. Others 
— others Oh, sir, I cannot tell you my his- 

tory now. Later, if we escape — if I escape, you 
shall know it.” 

Hope bowed as she uttered these words, mur- 
muring while he did so that he had no thought 
of intruding on her private affairs or of seeking 
her confidence ; then he said : 

“ Madame la Marquise, I see my coxswain mak- 
ing signals to me that the work is done and the 
boat ready to return to the ship. For a while — 
an hour or so, not longer — I must leave you, and 


20 


THE YEAR ONE 


I beseech you to trust in me. I know my cap- 
tain’s sentiments, which are the sentiments of an 
honourable and upright English gentleman; he 
will not refuse to let me return for you. No, 
not even though what he may do will embroil 
England and France, or rather England and the 
new French rulers. Where,” he continued, be- 
coming instantly practical, “ shall I expect to re- 
join you on my return ashore ? ” 

“I will wait here in this churchyard,” the 
Marquise said, while accompanying her words 
with a glance which seemed to bespeak ineffable 
disgust for those rulers of whom Hope had just 
spoken. “ I will be close to that tombstone 
which they have seen fit to mutilate ; there could 
be no more fitting spot.” 

Then she took from her pocket a superbly 
ornamented little watch (it was one of Furet’s 
most recent masterpieces) which did not match 
with the plainness of the dress she wore, and 
said, “ It’s now eight o’clock ; it will be dark by 
ten. At ten may I expect you ? ” 

“ At ten I will be here. You may rely on me ; 
for, even though the captain should refuse — 
which I, for the last time, declare to be utterly 
unlikely — still I will beg him to let me return 
and inform you that such is the case, so that you 
may make other arrangements for quitting 
France. Madame, I salute you. I will be here 
at the time appointed.” 

Whereupon, removing his cap, George Hope 


AN OMEN, PEEHAPS 


21 


prepared to turn away and go back to the launch ; 
but as he did so the Marquise de Bricourt ex- 
claimed : 

“ Ah, monsieur ! how can I thank you ? How 
can I testify at such a moment, at such a place, 
what my gratitude is ? Later, I must hope to do 
so, when we — when I am safe. Monsieur, till 
ten o’clock to-night, and Sans adieu” and she ex- 
tended her hand to him. 

“ Sans adieu” he repeated, bending over that 
hand, “ sans adieu” and so went round the but- 
tress of the church and through the graveyard 
out on to the dunes, as he had come. 

Yet, as he passed that tombstone from which 
was now removed all trace of the titles which 
the woman who had lain beneath it for nearly a 
hundred and fifty years had borne, he could not 
refrain from glancing at it in the coming dusk of 
the evening, nor could he help experiencing some 
weird and wizard sensation as he did so. For it 
seemed to his mind — which was a romantic one 
— partly because he was young and full of those 
thoughts which more particularly dominate us at 
that period of our existence ; partly, too, because 
he was a sailor — that some dark and sinister 
omen might be almost deduced from the fact 
that, but a few moments ere he had come face 
to face with this aristocrat who was endeavour- 
ing to escape out of her country, he had been 
gazing upon the desecration of a tombstone 
which recorded how, beneath it, slept a woman 


22 


THE YEAE ONE 


whose name was almost identically the same as 
hers. It was strange, he thought, very strange 
— was it an omen ? The dead marquise was be- 
ing robbed of her titles, of all those poor appan- 
ages of rank and position which in actual life 
have always been so much cherished, while, had 
she still possessed life, it — this accursed, murder- 
ous government, this blood-stained revolution 
which was becoming drenched with the issue of 
the great haemorrhage it had already caused to 
flow, and would, doubtless, yet cause to flow still 
more freely — would have had that, too ; and, in 
her place, there was one alive who bore the rank 
and titles she had borne, but who also possessed 
what she had long since parted with — life — ex- 
istence. Would the vulture known as the revo- 
lution have, therefore, the life of the present mar- 
quise if she did not escape, if she did not flee out 
of the land which the foul thing haunted ? Who 
could doubt it ! Surely, George Hope mused, his 
having been witness of that grave’s desecration, 
and his meeting an instant afterwards with the 
woman who bore the name and rank inscribed 
over the grave of another woman was an omen, 
a warning to him to do his best to save her. 

He thought all these things, or, if he did not 
think them, they at least arose in fragments to 
his mind as he went on his way, while noticing 
that the old man who had revelled in the deface- 
ment he had been engaged on was gone. Gone, 
he supposed, to the village inn to chuckle, to 


AN OMEN, PERHAPS 


23 


gloat over the task he had been engaged on : to 
babble and prattle with other revolted peasants 
as to how, in good time, it would not only be the 
heads of tombstones but the heads of living aris- 
tocrats which they would mutilate and deface. 

For Hope knew well enough, as all other 
people of intelligence knew in every part of the 
civilised world, how the horrors that engulfed 
France had gradually grown from out of a warm 
and generous desire on the part of the younger 
people for a more free and more enlightened 
government than that which their ancestors had 
ever known, to the cruel thing it was rapidly be- 
coming. He knew, too, as all the world knew, 
that the reign of the last Louis but one (the Louis 
who was called le lien dime , yet was so loathed 
and execrated that men spat upon the ground 
when his name was mentioned and honest women, 
who regarded their little daughters sleeping in 
their beds, would shudder as they thought of this 
lien aime , and fall down by those beds and utter 
prayers to God to shield the innocents against 
that which they did not dare to put into words) 
was one of the principal causes of the great 
transformation that had come over the land. 
Yet, also, he was aware that that Louis’ successor, 
now to all intents and purposes a prisoner in his 
own palace and in his own capital, was an up- 
right, honourable, and blameless king, if a weak 
and misguided one. A good king who had to 
suffer for the deeds of bad ones gone before him : 


24 


THE YEAR ONE 


a king whose sufferings had to be shared by 
thousands of men and women of high birth and 
descent who were, in many cases, as innocent and 
blameless as he. 

He thought over all these things as he went to- 
wards the launch ; he mused upon them still, as, 
swiftly under her mainsail and foresail, her course 
was steered towards the “ Dragon,” and he 
thought also of the beauteous aristocrat who de- 
sired to leave her tempest-tossed country. He 
remembered, too, how she had hinted at some 
deeper trouble than even that to which France was 
subjected now, a trouble more personal to herself 
than that which war and revolution, or even the 
blood drunkenness of the uprisen people, could 
produce. And, so thinking, he determined that, 
save for his captain’s emphatic refusal to have 
any hand in the matter, he would enable the 
Marquise d’Aubray de Bricourt to escape out of 
France. 


CHAPTER III 


THE CAPTAINS 

Gourville he St. Prie — as he had once 
been called, but Gourville Prie as his name now 
was, since the Assembly could no longer permit 
the aristocratic Saint to be borne in France any 
more than the aristocratic de, and especially by 
one of its own officers — sat in his cabin in “ Le 
Furieux,” of which vaisseau de guerre he was the 
captain. But, should any one acquainted with 
the ordinary sea-service as carried out in Eng- 
land have looked around that cabin, he would 
scarcely have believed that it could form part of 
a ship at all, while on the other hand he might 
have been pardoned for imagining that he had 
found his way into the boudoir of some renowned 
Parisian courtesan who, having been at one time 
the possessor of all the most costly luxury which 
hordes of admirers had lavished on her, was now 
in reduced circumstances and forced to accept as 
ornaments and decorations a number of knick- 
knacks of a far more cheap and tawdry nature. 
To wit, there was a collection of little oil lamps 
of coloured glass scattered about the cabin which 
might have been in place in a dancing-garden 
25 


26 


THE YEAR ONE 


outside a French provincial town; there were, 
also, several little cheap pictures of dancers and 
actresses nailed on to the bulkheads ; there was 
a tinsel-covered, moulded figure of the Goddess 
of Reason (thousands of which statuettes were 
being sold by hawkers all over the country at 
the present moment) that was lashed to the stern 
of the mizzenmast as it passed upwards through 
the cabin ; and there were two or three plaques 
of arms, which were most palpably constructed 
of wood and silver paper, also hanging on bulk- 
heads. Of real arms there were not many, Gour- 
ville Prie’s sword with its tricolour sword-knot 
being, however, one, and a pair of huge pis- 
tols, of the nature of those which were called 
in England horse-pistols, being others, all three 
of which reposed upon a sofa covered with an 
extremely gaudy cretonne which was, as well, 
extremely dirty and soiled. Yet, as the gallant 
French captain was often known to declare that 
he liked “les contorts ” he probably considered 
that, with those surroundings, he had gone far 
towards obtaining them. 

Opposite to where he sat at a little table (fixed 
on to which, so that the rolling of the vessel 
should not send it adrift, was a little leaden ink- 
stand in the form of a Goddess of Liberty) stood 
another officer, he being the first lieutenant who 
had been walking the deck when the “ Dragon’s ” 
longboat had gone ashore to fill the water casks. 
At the present time, however, he stood before 


THE CAPTAINS 27 

his captain and was answering some enquiries 
that the latter was making. 

“Therefore,” said Prie, “this is the sum of 
the woman’s information. The longboat of the 
‘Dragon’ has again gone ashore to fetch off 
madame, and everything is arranged between 
them. Hein ! He, this officier Anglais , is to 
meet her by the tomb of an earlier Aubray Bri- 
court, the boat is to take her to the ship, and the 
ship is to take her to Jersey. Is that it ? ” 

“C'est ga , and, mon cagpitaine , that boat is al- 
ready again ashore ; she passed under our bows 
nigh half an hour ago. Mordemonbleu ! it will 
be back again from shore with the beauteous 
Marquise ere long, and will have put her on 
board the English ship if we are not prepared to 
stop her. What are your orders, mon cagpitaine f ” 
“ Tete (Pune merluche ! what orders do you 
require, you who have been at sea ten years 
longer than I, yet have had bad luck. Orders ! 
Why ! take two of our chalougpes , meet the boat 
as she passes, tell those in her that she has one 
more than her full complement, as you can pre- 
tend to see ; that, as representing the navy of 
France, you wish to know who that extra indi- 
vidual is, since the law is very decisive as to 
none being allowed to quit France unless duly 

authorised by the Comite de saint Public ” 

“ She will not stop.” 

“ Soul of a shark, do I not know that ; well 
then ” 


28 


THE YEAE ONE 


“ Then?” 

“Yes, then . . . then — well then; are 

there not muskets and cutlasses in their ship 
ready for use, is there no powder, no ball — 
nothing for these English to make a supper on ? 
Or have we no sailors, or are they not ready for 
service ? Hein ! ” 

“ The boat is then to be sunk — with the — the 
emigree on board ? Sunk, eh ? ” 

“ Sunk, like a bag of empty oyster shells ! To 
the bottom of the sea with the men and the 
accursed English officer and the doubly accursed 
emigree who plays her noble — her once noble 
husband ! — false. Sink them all. It is the law 
of the Assembly as represented by me.” 

Ashore it was as dark now as at sea, a mile out, 
where “Le Furieux” lay, or half a mile further 
out where lay His Majesty’s ship “ Dragon ; ” so 
dark that, as George Hope stepped ashore from the 
longboat, after bidding his men observe the strict- 
est attention to every sound and keep the closest 
watch, he could scarcely see twenty yards ahead of 
him. Yet, because he was a sailor whose senses 
were always on the alert by night and day, and be- 
cause, too, it was impossible that he should mis- 
take his way to where the church was, since he 
had brought the boat ashore half a dozen times 
of late, this was a matter of no consideration to 
him. Nay, rather, he considered it was better 
thus since, thereby, he would not be seen in the 


THE CAPTAINS 


29 


vicinity of the graveyard where he was to meet 
the Marquise, nor, on the other hand, would any 
who happened to be about in the neighbourhood 
— fishermen, sailors, or inhabitants of the hamlet 
a mile off — be able to see her. That he had re- 
ceived his captain’s permission to take off Madame 
d’Aubray de Bricourt to the “ Dragon ” was evi- 
dent, not by his presence here, since he had said 
that he would doubtless be enabled to return in 
either circumstance of assent or reproval, but by 
the state in which the boat was now. For, 
beneath her thwarts, there lay at this present 
time a number of muskets corresponding to the 
number of the boat’s complement, while by the 
men’s sides were their cutlasses. And he, too, 
was armed more fully than when he had been 
ashore an hour and a half ago, he having in ad- 
dition to his sword, a pair of pistols in his belt 
at this time. 

“ I doubt,” his own captain had said to him, 
that officer being a somewhat different type 
of sailor from the captain of “Le Furieux,” 
“ whether their lordships would openly approve 
of my assisting this interesting young lady of 
whom you tell me, to quit France, yet I am quite 
positive that in their own hearts they will not 
blame me. France is already at war against the 
emperor of Austria, soon she will be against us. 
If this incident should hasten it, so much the 
better, though I do not imagine it will ever be 
heard of ashore. You may take the boat, Hope.” 


30 


THE YEAR ONE 


“ Thank you, sir. I, too, doubt if, when the 
Marquise d’Aubray de Bricourt has disappeared, 
any one in the neighbourhood will know how she 
did so, or where she went to. Our friends in 
“ Le Furieux ” probably never heard of her, and 
if they have done so they could scarcely imagine 
she would be on board one of His Majesty’s ships.” 

“If they do imagine it,” replied the captain 
with a light in his eyes which Hope thoroughly 
understood, “it would not be of much impor- 
tance, I opine. They might find it difficult to get 
her out of our ship when once she is in it.” 

After this, Hope went towards the door of the 
captain’s cabin intent upon having the longboat 
called away at once and of departing for the 
shore, yet ere he reached the spot his captain 
said another word. 

“ I presume,” he remarked, “ that there can be 
no reason to doubt the truth of this lady’s state- 
ment. This is no ruse of any sort, I trust, to 
inveigle you into danger, and I suppose you feel 
perfectly confident that this Marquise is acting 
in a straightforward manner and that — well ! 
that she is what she represents herself to be.” 

“ Oh ! sir,” the young lieutenant said, “ if you 
had seen her, if you had spoken to her as I have 
done, you would not have an instant’s doubt.” 

“I am older than you,” the captain replied, 
with a grim smile ; “ even beauty in distress, 
such beauty as you describe hers to be, might 
not blind me entirely.” 


THE CAPTAINS 


31 


“No, sir, but there are other things. It was 
not only her beauty — which I allow is enough to 
turn the head of any man — that convinced me, 
but her words. I assure you, sir, if you had 
heard her expression of scorn, if you had seen 
her look of ineffable contempt as she spoke of 
those who now hold the destinies of France in 
their hands, you would find it impossible to 
doubt. As you will find it, sir, when, in an 
hour, in two hours at latest, I bring her safely 
on board our ship.’’ 

“Well, good luck go with you. Come, there 
is two bells ; if you are going to keep your ren- 
dezvous with your new friend it is time for you 
to be away. Good luck, I say ; be prudent and 
come back safe to the ship.” 

“ And come back safe to the ship ! ” Those 
were the captain’s words, that his last kindly 
injunction to the young officer. Afterwards, 
when he recalled them and when George Hope’s 
name was no more borne upon the books of His 
Majesty’s ship “ Dragon,” while against that name 
there stood in the admiralty books the word “ Miss- 
ing,” and the date June 27th, 1792, he wondered 
if some prophetic impulse had inspired him to 
utter them. He meditated over those well-re- 
membered words while week after week passed 
and when the “ Dragon ” was no longer in Euro- 
pean waters, and sometimes it seemed to him as 
if they had been a knell rung by him over 
Hope’s naval career. 


32 


THE YEAR ONE 


But Hope himself naturally knew nothing of 
all that lay before him as he stepped ashore; 
there were no weird Sisters, nor Fates either, to 
warn or fright him from that which he had 
undertaken, none to bid him turn back and leave 
undone that which he had resolved upon doing. 
Nor, had there been, would he have obeyed their 
warning. It was not of such stuff as this that he 
was made. 

Therefore he went on towards the church that 
in itself was emblematical of ruin and destruc- 
tion, as gradually the sands of the sea accumu- 
lated round it and choked it and were swiftly 
burying it out of all human sight and knowledge. 
He went on until he crossed the top of the, now, 
almost submerged graveyard wall and so stood 
within the graveyard itself. And there — there — 
in the dusky dimness of the night, to which, 
however, he had grown quite accustomed in the 
last hour or so, he thought he saw the woman 
whom he had come to rescue looking at him from 
behind a head stone — yet not that one on which 
her own rank and title, though borne by another 
woman, had been carved until this day. He saw 
a pair of eyes, whose light seemed to sparkle be- 
neath the glisten of the stars, looking at him over 
the stone ; and surely — if the sombre gloom of 
the night did not deceive him ! — there was in 
them a mocking, jeering look ; a glance that, be- 
neath those stars, was almost horrible. And 
then, in an instant, there rose to his mind the 


THE CAPTAINS 


33 


words his captain had uttered, the doubt that he 
had suggested as to the Marquise being all that 
she had described herself. Were those doubts 
true, George Hope asked himself ; had he fallen 
into some snare, some trap ? 

Yet, whether that were so or not, this was not 
the time for meditation nor reflection, but, in- 
stead, for action. Whereupon, he advanced to- 
wards the stone behind which that figure stood 
enshrouded — or had stood enshrouded from top 
to toe a moment before, nothing of it being 
visible but those gleaming, sparkling eyes — and 
said in a low voice, “ Me void , madame .” But, 
receiving no response, Hope, looking more 
keenly, more piercingly into the gloom which 
was between this stone and some stunted with- 
ered bushes that grew behind it, perceived that 
the woman who had been there had vanished. 

“ It is strange,” he said to himself. “ Strange ! 
Why should she stand there, regarding me in 
such a way, her face, with, in it, those shining 
eyes, close to mine ; so close that almost could I 
feel her breath upon my cheek ; and then disap- 
pear when I spoke to her. Well ! no matter 
now, let me see if she is at the exact spot fixed 
upon for our meeting ; ” whereon he went to- 
wards the other tombstone, the one upon which 
there had been inscribed until this evening the 
titles of the other woman who bore the name of 
d’Aubray de Bricourt. 

And she was there — this woman whom he had 


34 


THE YEAR ONE 


come to meet, to save ; to rescue from what, to 
one of her rank, was impending calamity if not 
impending doom ; she was there ; a dark cloak 
with a hood was above her head, her whole 
figure was black and sombre and scarcely stand- 
ing out at all against the grimness of the night, 
while scarcely doing so even against the some- 
what clearer greyness of that tomb itself. 

“ Ah ! ” she said, and there was a little gasp, 
a little indrawing of her breath, that was per- 
ceptible in the solemn stillness that was around 
and over all ; a stillness broken only by the 
croaking of some frogs in a pool further inland, 
and the equally harsh croaking of a diver, or sea 
duck, upon the water. “ Ah ! so monsieur has 
come. And is it Yes or No ? ” she added eagerly. 

“It is Yes, as I told Madame la Marquise it 
would undoubtedly be. Now, we have no time 
for delay. Come, madame, the boat is in the 
creek, and the tide runs out. We must away at 
once.” 

Yet, even while he held out his hand to guide 
her through the gravestones of the churchyard, 
he knew that, in his heart, some mistrust of this 
woman had arisen; he felt that in that glance 
which he had seen fixed on him from behind the 
other stone — that mocking, horrible glance — 
there was something ominous, something that 
told of evil, of woe to come. So, because he was 
very frank, and also because, even after having 
observed the Marquise peering at him in that 


THE CAPTAINS 


35 


mocking manner and with a look so full of al- 
most devilish, threatening espieglerie , he was 
still loth to doubt her, he said : 

“ I scarcely understand why madame should 
have regarded me so silently when I drew near 
the other spot where she was, or why she should 
have refused to recognise my arrival then, but 
preferred, instead, to meet me at the appointed 
spot.” 

44 What ! ” the Marquise said, stopping in her 
progress towards where he was leading her. 
44 What ! I refused to recognise your arrival 
and at another spot from where you had promised 
to come for me. Do you say that ? ” 

“ Is it not so? Were you not looking at me 
from behind a tombstone nearer to the dunes, 
looking at me from over the head of some tomb- 
stone ” 

“ Ah ! ” the Marquise exclaimed. “ Ah ! It is 
impossible. I had not moved from that spot 
where we were to meet since the full darkness of 
the night set in,” and she turned and gazed full 
at Hope. 

Nor was it so dark now, when every star was 
blazing in the clear heavens on this summer 
night, but that he, looking down into those grey 
eyes that were regarding him, was able to under- 
stand why her astonishment should be what it 
was ; why she should have exclaimed , 44 Ah ! it is 
impossible ! ” 

For those eyes so close to his face now were 


36 


THE YEAK ONE 


not the same eyes as those which had been al- 
most as close to him a few moments before ; they 
were not the same eyes that had in them that 
look of threatening, mocking exultation. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE OLD ANTAGONISM 

There could be no further explanations at 
the present moment, since the distance was so 
short from where the almost sand-submerged 
wall of the churchyard was to the creek where 
the launch was waiting for them, that, in a few 
moments, they were close to it. Indeed, the 
challenge of the boat’s coxswain to George, and 
his reply — both being, of course, given in sub- 
dued tones — almost occupied the time they took 
to traverse the narrow stretch of sand which 
separated the former from the latter. Then, in 
a moment, Hope had given his hand to the 
Marquise and had assisted her into the boat ; the 
orders “oars” and “shove off” were uttered, 
while, as they were obeyed, the stern of the 
launch grated off the bottom and was free. 
Then, in two or three minutes more, she had 
breasted the small incoming breakers, and, with 
her stem towards “ Le Furieux ” (whose port light 
gave them their course) was on her way out to 
sea. To sea and, for the passenger, to freedom ! 

“ I have a cap for you,” said George, producing 
one from beneath the seat on which both he 
37 


38 


THE YEAR ONE 


and Lucienne sat, “ also a tarpaulin. If you will 
cover the former with the hood of the latter, 
none will know that we have any one on board 
beyond our own complement.” 

He had not forgotten any more than Gourville 
Prie had forgotten that, on the return journey of 
the launch, she would be carrying one more per- 
son than her proper number, or than had gone 
shoreward with her. But he counted on the 
darkness of the night, and the fact that the Mar- 
quise was sitting on the side of the boat farthest 
from the side of “ Le Furieux ” which they would 
pass, and that she would thereby be partly 
shielded from observation by his body, to pre- 
vent her from being perceived by those on board 
the French ship. 

Thinking all this, he deemed that the safety of 
the Marquise was assured, since it was not pos- 
sible he should know that, already, Prie had been 
warned by a visitor from shore — a woman who 
had been rowed out to him in a fisherman’s boat 
in the twilight — of what was about to take place 
that night .at ten o’clock. How should he have 
known, how should he have guessed that, even 
as he and Lucienne conversed by the buttress 
outside the fast disappearing church, another 
woman inside that church had overheard the 
whole of their conversation. For the edifice had 
long been windowless, the old stained glass 
which dated back to the days of the Yalois hav- 
ing been removed for preservation to St. Malo. 


THE OLD ANTAGONISM 


39 


He felt, therefore, no alarm as to their being 
interfered with on their voyage out to where the 
“Dragon” lay, the more especially as now there 
was a light wind blowing from off shore — a wind 
that more often than not springs up in this neigh- 
bourhood at nightfall, and was now filling their 
mainsail and foresheet and rapidly wafting the 
launch towards, first, the French corvette and, 
next, beyond that, the English warship. 

In the boat strict silence was maintained, since 
George knew that, however bold a heart the 
Marquise might possess, this could naturally be 
no time for conversation, nor, of course, would 
the men dare to indulge in any talk before an 
officer. Upon the water, therefore, no sound 
fell, not even the light dip of an oar, since row- 
ing had been suspended as the sails of the boat 
were hoisted ; and, beyond the ripple of the bow 
through the water and the hum of the wind in 
the sheets, all was as calm and still as death. 
Yet, suddenly, that calm was broken, as now the 
launch was a little more than half way between 
the land and “ Le Furieux ; ” it was broken by 
the man who sat forward in the boat, while in- 
tently peering to the side of the foresheet as he 
kept his watch ahead, saying in a low voice : 

“There is something ahead lying across our 
bows, sir. Two things, I think.” 

“ What are they ? ” asked Hope, in a voice as 
low as the man’s own. “ There are no buoys 
hereabouts.” 


40 


THE YEAH ONE 


“ They are not buoys, sir, but boats, I think.” 

“ What boats ? Fishermen’s or others ? ” 

“ They are not fishermen’s. They are too low 
on the water. Sir, I think they are the French- 
men’s.” 

“ What can they want ? What can they know ? 
Yet, no matter, carry on — we will steer a point 
off where they lie. Thus we shall understand 
their intention. It may be that they are on the 
lookout for some other boat than ours.” 

Then, turning to the Marquise who, if she had 
not understood the words which passed between 
the two men, had possibly comprehended that 
something unusual was taking place; he said, 
softly in French : “ There are two boats across 
our way. Yet, there can be no reason to sup- 
pose they desire to intercept us, while, if such is 
the case, they will find it hard to do. It is, I 
presume, not possible that any on shore can be 
aware that we are taking you away from France.” 

Beneath the stars as he turned to look at her 
while he spoke, in the amber light, too, of a 
full moon which was just now peeping up over 
the eastern horizon, and across which there ran 
a little bar of cloud, tinged, perhaps, by the last 
rays of the now far-off departed sun, a blood-red, 
George Hope saw that Lucienne d’Aubray’s 
beautiful face was very pale ; he noticed that in 
her soft, full tones there was atremour as though 
of nervousness, of, perhaps, apprehension. 

“ I should not have deemed it possible an hour 


THE OLD ANTAGONISM 


41 


ago,” she whispered in reply. “Yet, from the 
time you saw that other woman in the church- 
yard, I — I — have feared ” 

But she said no more, her words ceasing sud- 
denly. For now, across the waves there came a 
hail, a cry from one of those boats ahead of 
them and across their course ; a demand to know 
what craft it was that was coming out from 
shore and what its destination was. 

“ The launch of His Majesty’s ship ‘ Dragon,’ ” 
called back Hope in French, “ and going off to 
the ship itself.” 

“ The launch of His Majesty’s ship ‘Dragon,’ ” 
repeated the voice, which was in truth that of 
the first lieutenant of “ Le Furieux.” “ Good ! 
Shorten sail. We desire to see what you have 
on board.” 

“Shorten sail!” exclaimed Hope, contemp- 
tuously, in a low voice, yet not so low but that 
all his men heard him. “ At that fellow’s order. 
Bah ! ” while, as he spoke, he turned the iron 
handle of the rudder with his hand, and put the 
boat back on the course from which he had 
shifted her a moment before. For, now, he had 
altered his intention of steering to the side of 
the Frenchmen’s chaloupes ; he had decided to 
sail through or over those boats. While as he 
did so, he bade his men be ready with their 
cutlasses, but not to touch their muskets. “ If 
we fire,” he said to them between his teeth, “ we 
alarm those in “ Le Furieux ” while, also, we 


42 


THE YEAR ONE 


show all on board exactly where we are.” Then, 
as the words fell from his lips, there came a little 
subdued grunt, a sound of suppressed approval 
from the seamen before him ; he had given them 
the very orders they could most have desired. 
Wherefore, they spat softly in their hands so 
that, thereby, they might grasp more firmly the 
fish-skin covered handles of their weapons. 

Meantime those in the chaloujpes of “ Le Fu- 
rieux” — which boats are practically the same as 
English longboats — had seen the manoeuvre and, 
of course, divined its intent. So that in a mo- 
ment there was considerable bustle and innu- 
merable ejaculations aboard them, for, however 
brave a French soldier or sailor may be — and no 
one impugns their courage ! — nothing of impor- 
tance is ever done without chatter and excite- 
ment. While, also, from the first lieutenant’s 
throat there came the cry : 

“ Ventra-bou-mine ! will you run us down and 
sink us ! Diantre , never ! Not at least until 
we have that emigree — that ci-devant out of your 
boat, — not until we have the woman termed La 
Marquise d’Aubray de Bricourt out of your 
hands.” 

“ Ah ! ” murmured the Marquise, who, from 
the conversation being in French, understood 
all. “She has betrayed me. Yet, how could 
she know ? And — and — ” she wailed, “ I have 
brought ruin and destruction on you. You, mon 
brave ami.” 


THE OLD ANTAGONISM 


43 


“ Not yet, madame,” Hope replied, with a grim 
smile. “ Have no fear. They may have two 
boats to our one. But we have our sail on, and 

we are ” But he paused. He could not tell 

her, a French lady, how great was his confidence 
in the nationality of himself and his men. 

Whatever was to happen was now at hand — 
the launch was almost upon the two chaloupes ; 
had they not opened and separated at the mo- 
ment, it would have crushed over one if not both 
of them. Yet, separate though they might and 
did, she struck both of them in her passage ; one 
side of her dashing the stern of the first chaloupe 
away so that it almost spun in the water, while 
the other side encountered the stern of the sec- 
ond boat and, catching it under her lower plank- 
ing forward, so much depressed that part of the 
craft that its prow was raised out of the water. 
Such contact could not, however, take place with- 
out the launch herself being much hampered in 
her progress and, in the moment when her way 
was arrested, the Frenchmen found and seized an 
opportunity. One man, it was the first lieuten- 
ant himself, sprang from the gunwale of the boat 
he was in, sword in hand, and, in a moment, had 
severed the halyard of the foresheet, while at the 
same moment one of his sailors cut through the 
halyard of the mainsail with a knife, so that, al- 
though there was some little way still left upon 
the launch, it ceased almost immediately, es- 
pecially as now she was dragging one of the 


44 


THE YEAE ONE 


chaloujpes on either side— they being grappled to 
her by the hands of the Frenchmen. 

And then — then! — upon those silent waters 
there was an encounter between those sailors of 
long antagonistic races such as had often been 
witnessed before, and was often again to be wit- 
nessed amidst the carnage of naval warfare, in 
days to come, when boat-loads of men of either 
country, fleeing from burning and sinking ships, 
would attack each other and fight to the death. 
But not often when the two countries were at 
at peace (at peace !) nor in the darkness of the 
night with nothing but the stars and moon in the 
quiet heavens as witnesses, and with, in one of 
those boats, one who was no combatant though 
the cause of the strife — an insensible woman. 
Nor was it a strife accompanied by noise, or the 
discharge of pistol or musket, since the French- 
men no more wished to call the attention of the 
English ship of war to what was being done, than 
the English desired to attract the attention of the 
French corvette — but still a strife; grim to the 
death ; d toute outrance. A combat taken part 
in by French sailors who knew that here, before 
them, were the accursed English seamen who 
never seemed to dream that they could be de- 
feated and . . . thus . . . were scarcely 

ever defeated, though now those French thought 
they must surely be so since the others were but 
half their number. A combat taken part in on 
the other side by those very English sailors, rough 


THE OLD ANTAGONISM 


45 


sea dogs it is true, yet men who, though still 
young, had fought under the admirals Byron, 
Rodney, Hood, Parker and others, and who re- 
garded those antagonists before them as the 
servants of murderers and rebels. For, rough 
and uncouth as they might be, uneducated and 
illiterate and unable to spell their own names, 
they still had heard how these Frenchmen had 
suppressed their king and would doubtless soon 
murder him as well as many of the nobility, and 
how already slaughter was in the air and was 
sure ere long to take place with hideous fullness. 

So, with such incentives, as well as a long in- 
herited hate and rivalry on either side, these men 
fought stubbornly npon the waves, and as unyield- 
ingly and noiselessly as savage animals fight, who, 
having their antagonists’ throat in their grip, do 
not release that throat to growl or whine. With 
cutlasses and dirk, or knife, and in the case of 
the two rival officers, with swords, they fought, 
the three boats lashed together like one common 
plank and the lashing being as often as not formed 
by men’s hands. Yet, in half an hour — perhaps 
’twas less, perhaps only a quarter of an hour, for 
in such moments the sands of time run differ- 
ently from the manner in which they do where 
the pulses are slow and the passions at peace ; in 
that short uncountable space of time, the strife 
drew to an end. One of the chaloupes , full of 
dead, or it may be, only half dead and dying 
men, had been sunk by two English sailors who 


46 


THE YEAR ONE 


had stood in its bottom with their bare feet, they 
afterwards leaping back into their own launch ; 
the other was full of water which had come over 
her gunwales as she was lifted up or plunged 
down by the pressure or the withdrawal of the 
pressure of other men’s feet. Soon she must 
sink, too ! 

But the launch — what of her ? She also was 
full of dead or dying men, one lay with his rough 
head pillowed upon the feet of the insensible 
Lucienne d’Aubray de Bricourt, others were hud- 
dled pell-mell on top of each other, arms were 
lopped off, hands gone, heads cleft in twain. In 
truth, as the old Provencal poet said, “ la bataiele 
n'est jpas la jouissance d?une belle soiree d'ete” 

Two men fought, however, hand to hand up- 
right before each other — the first lieutenant of 
“Le Furieux”who stood upon the raised deck of 
the launch which formed the roof of the cuddy, 
and George Hope who was below him in the body 
of the boat, though raised somewhat by standing 
on two prostrate seamen. It was an uneven fight 
for more reasons than one, for another reason 
than that, by the exalted position of the French- 
man, he could cut down at the other’s head with 
deadly force. It was uneven, because Hope was 
wounded in the shoulder — he thanked God silently 
that it was the left and not the right one, for had 
it been the latter he would have had no power to 
guard his head — and he was becoming rapidly 
weak and faint from loss of blood. 


THE OLD ANTAGONISM 


47 


Yet still he knew there was a chance for him. 
A chance if once he could get under the guard of 
that furious foe — if — if — once his point could get 
to the man’s body — the man who, as he thrust 
and cut and slashed, muttered abuse of England 
and the English from his white lips mixed with 
curses and hideous blasphemy. And still they 
fought, not one of their men being able to render 
assistance to either as each tired more and more 
with his exertions. And then — suddenly — the 
Frenchman’s foot slipped upon the roof of the 
little raised deck — he staggered forward, almost 
pitching down into the bottom of the launch — 
and next . . . next! . . . with a wild 

shriek that was half an oath and half an awful 
cry of agony fell backwards into the sea. 

In that one moment Hope’s sword had darted 
through him as swiftly as a lightening flash. He 
was gone forever. 

His hand upon the mainmast, Hope supported 
himself as he looked round, he doing so suddenly 
at the swirling, swishing sound he heard. For 
the sound was that of the second chaloupe sink- 
ing waterlogged beneath the waves. But he had 
other things than this to think of ; he had to see 
who of all his men, were left alive in the launch, 
if any ; to discover, too, if enough sail could be 
made to reach the “ Dragon ” in a long tack. 
Yes, he told himself, it must be that. A long 
tack ! Thereby they might avoid the watch in 
“ Le Furieux,” which would doubtless be on the 


48 


THE YEAR ONE 


alert, and be able to escape also a shot from the 
guns. They might thus be able to save his pas- 
senger, the woman he had tried to rescue ; the 
woman, for whom so many lives had already 
been lost ; for whom, he thought, another life 
might be yielded up ere long — his own. Well! 
she, he could see, dimmed though his eyes might 
be, was unharmed, unwounded. She lay in a 
swoon, white as alabaster but beautiful as be- 
fore ; a swoon from which she would doubtless 
recover when he had dashed some water over 
her. But still, unwounded. He thanked God 
for that. 

Of his men he found (as he progressed faintly 
forward in the launch, still supporting himself 
by the mainmast) that three if not four were 
alive and likely to live, they being apparently 
only stunned. If he could arouse them, bring 
them to, or obtain their assistance to reeve some 
new tackle before the dawn came, then they 
could reach the “ Dragon ” ; they — she — would 
be saved. She, this beauteous aristocrat who 
had confided herself to his charge, who had 
trusted so in him. 

If he could do all that, — he found himself re- 
peating; if he could. Yet, his eyes were becom- 
ing more dim he thought — and— he could no 
longer stand. He was reeling — was giddy — 

was ! Why ! what had happened ! Why 

was he already on his knees upon the deck of 
the launch ! why — why — should his head feel so 


THE OLD ANTAGONISM 


49 


heavy ? He must have been wounded and never 
felt it. He was becoming faint, insensible. 

As George Hope muttered all this incoher- 
ently, he fell forward his full length in the boat, 
his head striking against the head of that dead 
sailor who lay at Lucienne d’Aubray’s feet, and 
with all sense and consciousness gone from him. 


CHAPTER Y 

ADELE SATIGNY 

The dawn was at hand, cold, grey, and misty ; 
from the waters there was a damp reek arising 
which gave them the appearance of smoking, 
while a little capful of wind caused them to slap 
lightly against the bows of the launch as she 
rolled, unsteered, upon their surface. Yet, all 
uncontrolled as the boat was, and without a 
stitch of canvas standing to propel her either one 
way or the other, since both the mainsail and 
foresheet hung over her sides (and, if anything, 
thereby impeded her progress), she still had 
some slight way upon her and was drifting back 
towards the shore — towards France ! Soon, if 
whatever current or tide was at work beneath 
her should not alter its trend, she would touch 
that shore ; she would have carried Lucienne 
d’Aubray back to the land from which she had 
hoped a few hours before to escape forever. 

In the boat, Lucienne sat upon the same seat 
which she had never left since George Hope had 
placed her in it ; the seat wherein she had lain 
prostrate and insensible from the moment the 
combat with the chaloupes of “ Le Furieux ” had 
50 


ADfiLE SATIGNY 


51 


begun ; but now she was no longer unconscious. 
Instead, she sat upright while holding the head 
of her would-be champion and defender on her 
knees, and bathing his brows and face at inter- 
vals with the sea water into which she momen- 
tarily dipped her handkerchief. 

“ Is he dying ? ” she whispered again and again 
to herself, as she had whispered the same words 
frequently during the vigil of two hours which 
she had kept, it being that space of time since 
she recovered consciousness and found him pros- 
trate at her feet. “ Dying ! He, this brave, 
handsome, English seaman. My God! How 
brave, how valorous he and his seamen must 
have been — as this shows.” And she cast her 
eyes around the launch as she spoke — while 
shuddering, too — and observed all the signs of 
devastation and death within it. For still the 
dead sailors lay as they had fallen, as they 
would lie until some burial, either in the earth 
or water, should provide them with their last 
peaceful resting-place. As for the wounded men 
who were not dead, they were as still and white 
as though their souls had parted forever, while 
the fallen sails looked like palls enshrouding the 
boat, though palls stained and reddened out of 
their white and ghastly purity. Truly, the once 
bright, scrupulously kept boat, presented but a 
dark, foreboding picture of gloom and desolation 
now. 

As still Lucienne d’Aubray mused, while gaz- 


52 


THE YEAR ONE 


ing down and noting the handsome features, the 
long, dark lashes and the wavy auburn hair of 
him who had risked — or may be, lost ! — his life 
for her, the man whose head lay in her lap, 
sighed and muttered some word — a word that, 
as she caught it, caused her to start, while her 
face, so marble white a moment before, became 
suffused now with a colour soft and pure as that 
of the rose blush itself. And even as she did so, 
Hope threw up his arm unconsciously, so that as 
it fell back it rested on her own. 

“He has not forgotten even in his delirium, 
his weakness, the name of her whom he tried to 
save,” Lucienne d’Aubray murmured, “ the name 
of the woman who has brought him to this pass.” 

For the word which George Hope had mut- 
tered was Lucienne. 

His arm still rested on hers, inert and lifeless ; 
his hand, equally inert, had fallen on to her 
shoulder and she, taking it in her own, now re- 
garded it for a moment. 

“ It is a brave man’s,” she whispered, blushing 
again, “a hero’s ; what strength must it not have 
exerted, what deed of valour have performed to 
have even saved us from the attack of those 
others and to have left us in possession of the 
sea.” 

As she spoke of that possession she let her 
eyes sweep the horizon, over which the light of 
the coming day, the dayspring itself, had now 
crept white and cold, and saw that, in absolute 


ADfiLE SATIGHY 


53 


fact, this boat in which they were was the only 
thing visible upon the waste of water. The 
French corvette was gone and so, also, was the 
great English ship of war whose black hull had 
lain so long and low and threatening-looking 
on the waves for days — the great English ship 
towards which she had gazed from out the 
foliage of the woods surrounding the Chateau 
d’Aubray-Bricourt, which stood a mile inland 
from the ruined church. Both the French and 
English ships were gone. Gone ! — but where ? 
That was a question she had no power to an- 
swer. 

It may have been that the contact of those 
soft cold hands — hands not more chilled by the 
night than by Lucienne’s shuddering reflections 
upon the horrors which she knew must have ac- 
companied the passing of that night — brought 
calmness to the distracted mind of George Hope ; 
but, be this so or not, at least he opened his eyes 
now and gazed up at the woman bending over 
and supporting him. 

“ What has happened ? ” he murmured, bewil- 
dered and almost delirious still, “where are we?” 
Then, ere she could reply, he cried in answer 
to his own question, “ Ah God ! I understand ; I 
recollect,” when, removing his hand from where 
it lay, he grasped the gunwale of the boat and 
raised himself into an upright sitting position, 
though not without recognising and understand- 
ing how she whom he had earlier sought to pro- 


54 


THE YEAR OUE 


tect and succour, had, in her turn, protected and 
succoured him. And, in one glance, swift yet 
shy, he conveyed to her all his recognition. 

“ I understand,” he said again, even as now he 
rose to his feet while observing, as he did so, that 
his strength seemed to have come back to him in 
some way, and imagining that it must have done 
so owing to the hours he had lain in either a 
swoon or a peaceful revivifying sleep. “ I un- 
derstand.” Then he went forward to where his 
men were and looked sadly at them, while noting 
who were dead and who still alive. “ Where are 
we ? ” he asked now, his sailor’s instinct strong 
upon him and causing him consequently to look 
seaward, such being a sailor’s first action in no 
matter what emergency. “ Heavens ! ” he cried, 
“ where are the ships ? ” 

“ They are gone,” Lucienne answered. “ Though 
I knew it not myself, until a short time ago. 
They must have departed ere I regained con- 
sciousness.” 

“ Ah ! yes, you were unconscious during the 
fray. Well ! it was better so. Ho need for you 
to have witnessed what went on. But now — 
now — we have to think of what is to be done.” 

“ What can have become of the ships ? ” 

“ I cannot guess,” George Hope answered. 
“Unless — unless— it may well be so! — those in 
the corvette who sent those boats out to attack 
us might have grown afraid of what they had 
done and so departed silently. While my ship, 


ADfiLE SATIGNY 


55 


perceiving that we did not return, may have sus- 
pected that “ Le Furieux ” had attacked us, may, 
indeed, have supposed that we had been taken 
prisoners and so were on board, and, consequently, 
have followed the other.” 

“ It may be that,” his companion answered. 
“ Doubtless it is so. Yet, in such a case, what 
can become of you ? Do you know that this 
boat is drifting back to shore — that that shore is 
France and — oh God ! I sicken as I say it — I 
knew not the evil I was doing — I have induced 
you, inveigled you, into endeavouring to assist 
an emigree to escape. And the punishment for 
that is — is ” 

“ Madame,” George said, speaking very gently, 
“ you have not to think of that at all, but only of 
yourself. What I did was done under the English 
flag, in an English boat belonging to one of the 
king’s ships. If the government of France has 
any fault to find with my actions let it make its 
account with England.” 

“ Helas ,” the Marquise almost vrailed, “ there 
are no longer any laws in France, nothing will 
avail — and what I myself did was done so 
thoughtlessly, so unknowingly. Eemembering 
that your ship was there to protect you if you 
failed to save me, I deemed that retaliation, punish- 
ment could only fall on me, on me alone.” 

“ Punishment fall on you,” cried George, while 
she saw that he had turned very pale. “ Ah ! I, 
too, had forgotten. Punishment on you,” he re- 


56 


THE YEAR ONE 


peated. “Yes, yes, I remember. The punish- 
ment dealt out to those who are would-be emi- 
grants and are taken in the act. My God ! what 
is to be done on your behalf ? The boat is near- 
ing the shore rapidly, in half an hour it will be 
there. Nay,” he cried, suddenly, “ it must never 
be there,” while, as he spoke, he seized the rud- 
der handle and put her off her drifting course, 
the bow being immediately pointed further along 
the coast. 

“ Yet,” she said, “ it is scarcely daylight ; none 
can be about at this hour. What if we should 
get ashore unseen ? Thus we might escape, for, 
in truth, our attempt to leave France, your noble 
attempt to assist me, may not even be known ; 
and I am acquainted with all the country round ; 
I know the forests and woods and the whole of 
the Bocage. There, even if sought for, none 
could find us. None ! since all here, or almost 
all, are against the Legislative Assembly.” 

“ Yet,” said Hope, “ we are here, and there are 
troops hereabouts, which serve this new govern- 
ment. I have seen them when we have been 
ashore before for water. No,” he continued, 
“ that will not do. Better, if it is possible, that 
we should get to Jersey — it is little more than 
twenty miles from here and is the nearest island. 
There you will be safe.” 

“ Is it possible to do so ? Can you take the 
boat there, alone and unaided as you must be, since 
those poor men, although not dead, are helpless.” 


ad£le satigny 


57 


" I may do it if I can but repair the halyards 
and get the sails up. The wind is off the land, 
therefore it should be easy to accomplish.” 

Saying which, George Hope went forward to 
that cuddy from the roof of which the dead 
Frenchman had fallen after their encounter; 
while, moving gently one or two of the still liv- 
ing men from where they lay in front of the little 
cabin, he crept into it and endeavoured to find 
either some other halyard or, at least, some rope 
with which the severed ones could be spliced and 
repaired. While as he discovered what he 
wanted and that which he had felt sure was 
there — since the launch would never have set out 
upon the most inconsiderable cruise ashore with- 
out a sound set of ropes — he uttered a little cry 
of content, of almost joy. For, with these, he 
knew that Jersey — which meant certain safety 
for Lucienne d’Aubray was within their grasp ; 
he knew, too, that, if the wind from off the land 
continued to hold, and nothing appeared to stop 
them on the way in the shape of a French ship 
of war, they would be in English waters ere 
three hours were passed. It was not strange 
that with such knowledge he should have uttered 
that cry. 

Yet, to his astonishment, he heard another 
sound as he crept out of the cuddy which was in 
no way an answer to his exclamation, nor was it 
a question as to whether he had discovered that 
which it was so necessary to find. Instead, it 


58 


THE YEAR ONE 


was almost a moan, a gasp of dismay ; one that 
spoke only too surely of disaster or danger near 
at hand. 

“ What is it ? ” he cried, springing to his feet. 
“ What ? Ah ! I see ! And our sails are not 
bent, is would take a quarter of an hour for me 
to get them up all unaided as I am.” 

For one glance at Lucienne’s face, one mo- 
ment’s observation of the look of terror in her 
eyes as they stared towards the shore, had been 
sufficient to direct his own attention towards the 
land and cause him to observe what it was that 
terrified her so. 

He saw some half-dozen men in blue uniforms, 
standing upon the sands, men with tricoloured 
cockades in their hats, who were dragging a boat 
from behind one of the largest of the dunes. 
But there were other things to be seen also. 
Four or five more men were wheeling a large brass 
cannon down to the water’s edge, which cannon, 
as though in bitter mockery of the times and of 
what work it might in the next few moments be 
called upon to perform, was decorated with half- 
faded flowers. These latter men were under the 
command of an officer; the slight gold line of 
lace around his sleeve — which was the sole deco- 
ration that the Assembly allowed even its officers 
to wear — showing plainly that he was one. This 
man, this officer, bore in one hand a lighted 
mesh, while, with the other, he made signs to his 
subordinates as to how they should depress and 


ADfiLE satigny 


59 


lay the cannon, and, then, stooping behind it and 
running his eye from the back sight to the front 
one, he applied the mesh to the touch hole. 

“You see,” exclaimed George Hope, while 
Lucienne d’Aubray shrieked aloud as the ball 
cut the waves some three feet ahead of the 
launch’s stem and drenched both of them with 
the spray. “You see, madam e, our attempt is 
known. They were on shore waiting for us. 
Some one has divulged your flight and warned 
those men to be ready in case you should be 
driven back ashore, or else those in the corvette 
may have been able to inform them that we had 
defeated their boats.” 

“ Heaven help us ! ” whispered Lucienne d’Au- 
bray. “ Heaven help us if we are captured and 
taken ashore,” while, in an even lower whisper, 
which her companion could not hear, she added : 
“Heaven help you , my brave, noble friend. For 
me it matters nothing. But you — you — so young 
and brave, to fall into their hands ! Into,” she 
said to herself in an even lower tone, “ his 
hands.” 

These latter words could by no chance have 
been overheard by George, even though he had 
been unoccupied, which, however, was very far 
from being the case since, sailor-like — perhaps 
one may be pardoned for saying, Englishmanlike 
— he was still doing his best to escape that which 
would be defeat at last. 

With a swift motion of his hand he had headed 


60 


THE YEAR ONE 


the launch out to sea and had fixed the rudder 
handle, whereby she offered no larger mark than 
her stern to the next ball which hurtled by her ; 
and he now was engaged in attaching the new 
halyard to the sails as swiftly as might be so that 
he might run them through the blocks and thus 
raise the latter. 

“ If I can but do it,” he whispered, “ ere that 
cannon fetches us ; if I can but get our sail up 
and it fills we shall be out of their reach ere they 
can fire their next ball. Ah ! if I had the full 
use of my left arm.” 

Yet, without the full use of it, he was succeed- 
ing in his endeavour ; another, a third ball, had 
passed close to them, so close that each felt the 
wind it made upon their cheeks and heard its 
droning, beetle-like hum. He was succeeding 
even as that officer of the Legislative Assembly, 
who was firing on a boat in which a woman sat, 
was becoming each moment more deadly in his 
aim as he found his range. He was succeeding ! 
The end of the mainsail halyard was through the 
block, he was hauling on to the sail now and get- 
ting it hoisted ; already it was three parts up the 
mast — and then — then — there was another report 
from the shore, a crash above their heads — a foot 
above George Hope’s head ! — and the mast was 
cut in half, the sail fell down all over him and 
enveloped him as though he were in a net. Their 
chance was gone ! 

“They are coming out from the shore,” 



i i 


»* 


HK SAW A TALL, DARK WOMAN WAVING TO MOKK SOLDIERS, 


























































































- 


























ad£le satigny 


61 


Lucienne d’Aubray cried, “they have launched 
the boat. Oh God ! I have slain you. You will 
be taken, tried and murdered.” 

“Not while I have life, not while one hope re- 
mains,” the other cried, as he freed himself from 
the entanglement of the sail. “ Not while there 
is a cutlass to my hand. Oh ! that these men who 
are still alive could lend assistance. Then we 
would indeed make a stern fight for it.” 

Yet without their assistance, he determined 
that, nevertheless, the fight should be made. 
There were loaded muskets under the thwarts 
he remembered ; if the powder had but remained 
dry he had still the lives of some of those on- 
comers at his mercy. 

In a moment, therefore, he had seized a musket 
and seen to its priming ; in another, while stand- 
ing up in the launch, he had aimed and fired at 
the out-coming boat, and seeing, a second later, 
as the smoke rolled away, that the man pulling 
the bow-oar in that boat had fallen forward in a 
heap upon the shoulders of the soldier in front 
of him. And he would have seized another 
loaded musket and fired again, for now his Eng- 
lish blood, deduced from a long line of sailors, 
was up and he was mad with the hot desire to 
slay all who crossed his path and thwarted him, 
when, suddenly, upon the beach he saw a tall 
dark woman waving to more soldiers who were 
coming rapidly from behind the dunes. The 
woman who was, he felt sure, the same dark- 


62 


THE YEAR ONE 


eyed, devilish-looking creature who had glared 
mockingly over the tombstones at him the night 
before. A moment later, he heard her cry ring 
across the hundred yards of water that was be- 
tween the launch and the shore; he heard her 
words: “Behold the false wife. The abscond- 
ing aristocrat. Behold her. Behold and capture 
her.” 

“ Who is she ? ” George cried, turning round 
on the Marquise, even as he learned that his 
companion was a married woman fleeing from 
her husband. “ Who ? ” 

“My deadliest enemy,” the other answered, 
“ my bitterest foe. A woman of the people, one 
Adele Satigny.” 


CHAPTER VI 


FAMILY HISTORY 

The noontide heat of that day was over, so, 
too, was the heat of the afternoon, the cool 
freshness of early evening was at hand ; a fresh- 
ness aided by the breeze that was now blowing 
from off the channel as the wind shifted with 
the coming of night. 

That breeze blew not only over the encroach- 
ing sand which slowly, like a leprosy, was spread- 
ing over all that had ever had existence and 
strength, but over, also, the little seaport village 
or bourg of Bricourt, (which — for the present — 
was still safe from the creeping destruction) as 
well as over farms and orchards dotted about ; it 
reaching next the park and woods of the Cha- 
teau de Bricourt in its passage. A grand old 
park, superb old woods were these, both being 
filled with the great trees — the elms, oaks and 
beeches which flourish here as they flourish no- 
where else out of England. Elms, oaks, and 
beeches which, though the salt wind from the 
ocean had blown on them for, in many cases, 
centuries, had never been affected nor withered 
by that wind; trees upon which thousands of 
63 


64 


THE YEAR ONE 


glowing sunsets had smiled radiantly and be- 
neath which generations of lovers had walked 
with arms entwined ; lovers who, in their respec- 
tive turns, had worn the costumes popular under 
Philip the Fair, Henry of Yalois, Henry of 
Navarre, Louis le Dieudonne, Louis le Bien Aim6, 
and Louis le Bon — who was still called a king but 
was, in actual fact, a prisoner of his own people 
and with his hours surely numbered. 

A grand old chateau, too, was this of de Bri- 
court’s, dating far back to the days of Yalois; 
and the earlier Capets ; a chateau in whose halls 
hung arms and armour once worn by crusading 
knights; by d’Aubrays and de Bricourts who 
had fought in the Hundred Years war; by some 
who had been at Pavia and by others who had 
served with Conde and Turenne, as well as by 
many who had stood face to face with William 
of England and with Marlborough, and had been 
hedged in by their phalanxes of steel. A chateau 
surrounded by cool, pleasant gardens and by 
shady trees, beneath whose boughs statesmen, 
scholars, sailors, soldiers and ecclesiastics had sat 
and talked, not only when they had become suc- 
cessful and eminent men but, earlier, when they 
were boys with the world all before them — a 
world unknown to them at that time beyond the 
confines of the estate and the village a mile 
away. 

To-night, upon this warm June evening, the 
man who had last borne the proud title of Mar- 


FAMILY HISTOEY 


65 


quis d’Aubray de Bricourt, and had possessed 
with that title all the ancient privileges of the 
old aristocracy — in many cases strange privileges, 
too ! — sat in a deep chair upon the grass in front 
of the old chateau. Only, now, he was no longer 
known as the Marquis d’Aubray de Bricourt, but 
as the citizen Jean Aubray. For he, like all 
other aristocrats, was shorn of any title or rank 
which he might originally have been possessed 
of, while — which was, perhaps, the strangest 
thing of all ! — he seemed to have been very will- 
ingly deprived of such appanages. For round 
his waist, he wore the tricolour sash and in his 
hat the tricolour cockade. 

Yet this was not the strangest thing of all ; it 
was not the thing which would most forcibly 
have struck those who, while remembering the 
original rank and position of the man, should 
have regarded the man himself. For, instead, 
the observer would have wondered if it was pos- 
sible that this man sitting in his chair could be 
by any circumstances a descendant of those who 
had once stood mail-clad outside the walls of 
Jerusalem and at Ascalon; who had reeled be- 
neath the charge of Edward’s knights at Crecy, 
or gone down beneath the storm of English 
arrows launched against them by the English 
bowmen at Agincourt ? This man ! lean and 
.cadaverous, whose dark Asiatic looking eyes 
gleamed from out a sallow face ; this man who 
held in one hand a common pipe while, with the 


66 


THE YEAR ONE 


other, he now and again raised a glass to his lips 
which he filled from a bottle at his feet. 

In absolute fact, he who should thus have won- 
dered about this person, once the Marquis d’Au- 
bray de Bricourt, but now the citizen Jean Aubray 
— once, too, the seigneur of the district, but now 
content to be known by no higher appellation 
than that of mayor of the commune and officier 
de Vetat civil — would have had good cause for 
his doubts and wonderment, since the man be- 
fore him had not one drop of the old Norman 
and Breton blood of the d’Aubrays in his veins. 

Long years before this period, fifty years and 
more ago, and when the French army of Louis 
XY. returned from the first Silesian war after 
the fall of Linz and Passau, there had come 
with them a man who was a stranger to France, 
but one who had become marvellously well 
known to the officers of that army. He had ap- 
peared before them originally at Linz itself in 
the character of a sutler, an individual who could 
provide them with provisions, liqueurs, arms, cloth- 
ing, anything and everything that could be de- 
vised either for officers or men — and with some- 
thing else besides ; namely, as much money as 
they required — a commodity which the young 
aristocrats who followed Marshall Belle-Isle were 
always very willing to borrow at any rate of in- 
terest that the man calling himself Casimer Pet- 
rovitch saw fit to demand. For they were far 
away from France and their intend ants or agents, 


FAMILY HISTOKY 


67 


or their fathers’ or mothers’ intendants, could not, 
or would not, send them all the money which 
their gambling propensities in camp or garrison 
rendered necessary, as well as did the gratifica- 
tion of many other little pleasures and amuse- 
ments. Wherefore, they found the sutler with 
the Polish Christian name and the Servian sur- 
name (which was, if those young members of the 
noblesse ever thought about such things, some- 
what of an incongruity !) very useful, and he, on 
his part found them useful, or hoped to do so 
eventually. 

Who this man was, what he was by race and 
creed, or where he came from, no one even knew. 
Belle-Isle, who had opinions on many subjects 
besides war and campaigns, and was given to 
expressing them openly and with considerable 
freedom, said he believed the fellow was a Polish 
Jew . . . there was a Poland then ! . . . 

others, equally free spoken, described him as 
some Hellenic scoundrel from the Levant, while 
others deemed him Turk, Moldavian or Walla- 
chian; but, although they borrowed his money 
at ruinous rates of interest and despised him at the 
same time, none knew for certain, or ever knew, 
who or what the man calling himself Casimer 
Petrovitch was. 

Time passed ; the Silesian wars — both of them 
— were over ; most of the aristocrats were back 
in France, and with them had come this alien, 
this man with the dark beady eyes and the lithe, 


68 


THE YEAK ONE 


sinuous form which reminded those who had 
seen such things of a panther. 

He arrived in Paris — Paris, the corrupt and 
impure of Louis XY.’s time ; Paris, still bankrupt 
as Le Boi Soleil had left it and all France; 
Paris, to live in which was to live in Paradise ! 
Paris, for the means whereby to live in it noble- 
men sold or pawned their estates, women sold 
their honour, children sold their birthrights, and 
the king sold rank and titles. A great, a won- 
drous city was this maitresse mile; a place in 
which one would prefer to die rather than to 
live elsewhere. 

In it, the man who was either Jew or Turk or 
Greek as the fancy took people to call him, be- 
came a power. Soon, he had a dozen noblemen’s 
lands and estates in his hands, three years later 
he had a nobleman’s daughter for his wife — it 
was said Le Bien Aime had once admired her, but 
that did not matter; a little later still, and it 
was whispered that he had lent his Majesty 
three million livres for a private purpose of 
which the king, the Comtesse de Maille (then 
maitresse en titre ), and Petrovitch himself alone 
knew anything. 

But, still, time passed. The money lender of 
many attributed faiths and nationalities was now 
a vicomte dwelling near St. Malo, upon a 
property which he had obtained from one of the 
young sprigs of nobility to whom he had been 
useful, and whose title — when the latter had 


FAMILY HISTORY 


69 


drowned himself after discovering that he had 
become a pauper ! — Louis had graciously con- 
ferred upon the new owner of the property — 
doubtless for a consideration. The new owner 
had also a son by now, so that, as many said 
with their tongues in their cheeks, he had founded 
a family. But then, at an inconvenient moment, 
a terrible thing occurred. Casimer Petrovitch 
as the man had once been, Casimer, Yicomte de 
St. Denis de Laurent as he had become, died. 
He did so in an aristocratic manner, however, 
since the smallpox was sweeping over France 
at the time and carrying off with its infected 
breath the nobility of half the countries of West- 
ern Europe. Perhaps, if he knew the latter fact, 
it consoled him, or, as the old Marquis Mirabella 
de la Ruffardiere — who possessed a fine wit — 
said, made his “ passover ” a pleasant one. 

This untimely and lamentable occurrence took 
place in the year 1772 when his son, Jean (the 
elder son of the original Yicomtes de St. Denis 
de Laurent always bore the name of Jean, so of 
course this youth bore it, too ! ) was thirty, and 
although Jean was very willing to enter into the 
holy bonds of matrimony with some aristocratic 
young lady or other after his father’s death, he 
found it a little difficult to do. One, to whom 
he suggested a union, laughed at him when he 
proposed such a thing ; another regarded him 
with such a strange look from her grey eyes, that 
he left her presence much agitated ; the daughter 


70 


THE YEAE ONE 


of the above Marquis Mirabella de la Euffardiere 
screamed for her lacqueys to thrust him out into 
the courtyard and to beat him severely after- 
wards, which latter indignity he only escaped by 
distributing a considerable amount of largesse. 

But, with him, as with his lamented father, he 
found Time going on — as it has a most unpleasant 
habit of doing — and yet he was not married, so 
that he was now forty-five and still he had no 
wife. Then, suddenly, he bethought himself of 
how there was one girl in the world, a girl of 
eighteen years old, who might, he considered, be 
compelled to marry him ; a girl named Lucienne 
d’Aubray and daughter of the last of the 
d’Aubrays de Bricourt. This last scion of an 
ancient house was himself almost an old man, 
but he had, when younger, formed one of the 
dissolute crowd of courtiers who had surrounded 
Louis XV., and, in consequence, had ruined him- 
self, whereby his estates had passed into the 
hands of Casimer, Vicomte de St. Denis de 
Laurent, and afterwards into those of his son, 
Jean. At present, in that year 1787, he lived in 
a poor house in St. Malo upon a small pittance — 
a very small one — which the new vicomte had 
contracted to allow him. 

To this decayed aristocrat, the Vicomte Jean 
went with a proposal for his daughter’s hand 
and also with several other accompanying 
proposals. 

“ If you will give her to me,” he said, “ then 


FAMILY HISTOEY 


71 


the remainder of your life shall he of the happi- 
est. We will restore the chateau, we will all 
live together in it, and at your death, Lucienne 
will, by a law passed by Eichelieu and never re- 
pealed, become the Marquise d’Aubray de Bri- 
court. Her children will therefore keep the 
family title alive.” 

“Yes,” said Agenor d’Aubray; “yes, that is 
so. But, meanwhile, by that same law, you too, 
will be the Marquis d’Aubray for your lifetime.” 
For, fool and spendthrift as this man had been 
in his earlier days, he was scarcely such a fool as 
not to know the laws in connection with titles 
and properties in France. 

“That is so,” said Jean. “Well! a St. Denis 
Laurent will not make a bad d’Aubray de 
Bricourt.” 

“ No,” replied the other, with a sinister glance, 
“ a St. Denis de Laurent would not.” And, al- 
though he said no more, the other understood him. 

Yet the poison seed had taken root in the old 
Marquis’ mind. To live once more in his ances- 
tral chateau, surrounded by the very walls 
which had witnessed the birth of generations of 
d’Aubrays ; to dwell in the house in which every 
stone was connected with his own name, would 
indeed be happiness extreme to him, while, to 
see his child give birth to more d’Aubrays who 
should carry on to distant times the name al- 
ready so ancient and renowned, would be the 
acme of his happiness. 


72 THE YEAE ONE 

He resolved that Lucienne should become the 
man’s wife. 

At first, neither he nor Lucienne’s suitor had 
had the least thought about the girl herself, nor 
what her opinion would be on the subject, since, 
in the France of those days, such things were 
never considered. A girl wedded where her 
father told her, either willingly or unwillingly. 
If the former, so much the better, if the latter, 
well ! it was so much the worse for her, but — she 
wedded the selected suitor nevertheless. 

With Lucienne it was much the same as with 
other young women of her caste, though, since 
the old and battered Marquis had still some 
shrivelled-up thing within his breast which did 
duty for a heart, he absolutely made sacrifices 
on his own part to induce her to fall in with his de- 
sires. For, finding that she was struck dumb 
with horror at what he desired her to perform 
and finding that, in her disgust at her fate, she 
would probably do something violent to herself, 
the Marquis played a little comedy which would 
in truth have done credit to Pirou or Beaumar- 
chais, the beloved, though by this time somewhat 
rusty, dramatists of his earlier days. 

He told her that not only was he a ruined 
man but one who, in his downfall, and with a 
view to preventing that downfall, had done dis- 
graceful things which had placed him in the 
power of another man — her would-be husband 
— who might, if he chose, send him to the gal- 


FAMILY HISTORY 


73 


leys and thereby consign their ancient and hon- 
ourable name to everlasting disgrace. There was 
not a word of truth in the whole thing, no more 
than there was in the comedies of the above 
brilliant authors, but, nevertheless, the ruse suc- 
ceeded. Lucienne yielded and became the wife 
of the Yicomte de Saint Laurent. 

Three years later, Agenor d’Aubray died, 
blessed by the priests and surrounded by all the 
pomp and ceremony which should accompany 
the deathbed of one whose family dated from 
the days of Pepin. Yet he did not die happily 
nor at peace. For he had come to understand 
that the villainous comedy which he played had 
resulted simply in the fact that he had broken 
his daughter’s heart. He had married her to a 
man whom she loathed, while, at the same 
time, the husband he provided her w T ith had, at 
a very early period of their married life, grown 
weary of his aristocratic spouse and had com- 
menced to treat her not only with cruelty but 
insult. And, if there was one thing that more 
than all could have struck horror to the soul 
of Agenor d’Aubray, it occurred when, a few 
months before his death, he saw his son-in-law 
espousing the principles of the then new Legis- 
lative Assembly and absolutely appearing before 
his eyes girt with a tricolour scarf. 

“In this house,” he gasped to his daughter 
when they were alone. “ In this house ; the an- 
cient house of the d’Aubrays ! ” 


74 


THE YEAR ONE 


Though, even as he did so, the sad eyes of 
Lucienne told him plainly enough that this was 
not the only thing that had taken place in it of 
late which might well wring his heart. 


CHAPTER VII 


adele tells her story 

Jean Aubray — the ci-devant , as all who had 
ever borne titles in France were now called — 
continued to sit on in his chair upon the lawn be- 
fore the great grey, stone house, and to drink 
from the glass at his feet while the sun sank 
farther and farther behind the chateau, and the 
shadows of the trees grew longer and longer. 

To look at him as his beady oriental eyes 
glinted and glanced from side to side of where 
he sat, or peered occasionally down an alley of 
old hazel trees, while, at the same time, he bit 
his nails nervously, one might have supposed 
that he awaited anxiously the coming of some 
other person. And his mutterings and self-com- 
munings might also have fostered the same sup- 
position. 

“For six days,” he murmured now, “nay — 
rather — for seven; ever since the English ship 
of war lay outside, she has been watching for a 
chance to communicate with one of the officers 
coming ashore. Yesterday, she succeeded. The 
old man, Martin Pol, the stonecutter, knew that 
she was sheltering behind the buttress of the 
75 


76 


THE YEAE ONE 


church and waiting for an opportunity to speak 
with him who was in command of the boat; 
Adele was inside the church and heard all they 
arranged. The church ! ” he continued, with an 
intonation of contempt. “ The church, stuffed 
so full of her aristocratic ancestors that some 
have to lie outside as though they were beggars. 
del ! they could have chosen no better spot for 
a rendezvous than the tomb of one of those an- 
cestors, nor one more specially fit than that 
which contained the body of a Marquise d’Au- 
bray de Bricourt. Fichtre jpour tons les d'Au- 
brays ! 99 

He paused in his mutterings now, though, 
doubtless, not in his meditations ; but still his 
eyes were glinting and glancing everywhere 
around, while there was still in them that watch- 
ful look which is unmistakable. The look of one 
who awaits another’s coming, who is sure that 
that other will come and, consequently, wonders 
that he or she has not already done so. 

“All through the night,” he went on now, 
speaking aloud to himself, “ all through the night 
I listened in the room towards the sea, yet heard 
no noise, no sound of pistol or musket shot. 
Therefore, she has escaped, since, had they been 
fired on either from the ship or from her boats, 
I must have heard it. I watched until nigh 
dawn, not seeking my bed till then. She has 
escaped and is in Jersey by now — with many of 
her aristocratic friends of this neighbourhood 


ADfiLE TELLS HER STORY 


77 


and elsewhere ; those friends who have alwaj^s 
scorned me and my father; those dear friends 
who told her father he would better have con- 
sulted her honour and her birth in putting a knife 
to her throat than in letting me wed her. Those 
dear friends ! those dear aristocrats of this most 
aristocratic land! who spoke of my father and 
of myself with a clear accentuation of our titles 
that was meant to mark and — curse them ! — did 
mark their disdain, while behind our backs they 
cursed us as renegade Jews, Turks, Levantine 
scoundrels — dogs ! Ha ! well — d chaque chien 
son jour. The Lescures are in hiding, though 
they say that he and de la Roche jaquelein mean 
to arouse the land into a counter-revolution ; 
many have fled ; la Ruffardiere was hanged last 
week a la lanterne at Nantes, and his daughter 
would have had me beaten ! So, so.” 

He drank a little more from his glass now, 
and then continued his meditation. 

“ Since she must have escaped,” he went on, 
“ I am as free as though — as though — this new 
fangled thing they call le petit Louison 1 had 

1 At this period of the narrative, a short note upon the guil- 
lotine may not be out of place. It was originally called “le 
petit Louison ” after a M. Louis, who was undoubtedly its first 
projector in France, though Dr. Guillotine — of hideous recollec- 
tion and a man “dammed to everlasting fame ” — was the per- 
son who caused it to be adopted in France. As is well known, 
it was not a new invention. The Romans, the mediaeval Ger- 
mans, the English and the Scotch had all used a similar instru- 
ment, such as, with the two latter, the Halifax gibbet and the 


78 


THE YEAR ONE 


sliced her head off. Just as free. As an emigree 
she has forfeited every right in France as well as 
her life, if she returns. I am divorced and free.” 

“ Divorced and free,” he repeated to himself, 
and then again muttered the word u Free ” as 
though that aroused some stronger thoughts than 
the one which preceded it. “ Free ! Yet am I ? 
Well ! we will see.” 

His musings and mutterings reached a further 
point than these, and doubtless, would have con- 
tinued for a still longer period, had not his shift- 
ing eyes discerned at last a figure which was 
coming towards him from the nut-tree avenue. 

This figure was that of a woman tall and slight 
— svelte , to use the expression of the country ; — 
a woman with eyes dark and starry as are sum- 
mer nights, and possessing masses of coal black 
hair, braided partly above her head and partly 

Scottish Maiden. Experiments in France were commenced on 
the dead bodies of criminals in Bicetre, the first living person 
executed was one Pelletier, a common footpad who had at- 
tempted robbery with violence. This was on the 25th April, 
1792. The first political victims (viz, of the Revolution) were 
three men named D’Angremont, Durosoi and la Porte, executed 
respectively on the 21st, 25th and 27th August, 1792. D’An- 
gremont was an inferior civil servant, Durosoi was an editor of 
a Royalist journal — a poor effete paper, afraid to speak its 
mind and contenting itself with giving the names of suspects, 
— la Porte was the minister of the civil list. Had Durosoi 
died first instead of second, of these three, Literature — (if his 
miserable efforts could claim to have any share in the art) — 
would have had the honour of providing the first political victim 
to that thing of blood and crime called the French Revolution. 


ADELE tells her story 


79 


falling in ringlets over her shoulders. Upon 
that head she wore a round straw hat which had 
drooping flaps and, for decoration, the eternal 
tricolour. Her white dress was open in front 
and displayed thereby a flowered petticoat, 
while, behind, it trailed on the ground ; and she 
wore, also, a white lace kerchief tied loosely 
round her throat but puffed out beneath her chin 
like a pigeon’s breast. Altogether, this woman 
whose age might be between twenty-five and 
thirty, presented a striking and handsome ap- 
pearance that was marred — if one may say that 
it was marred at all — by a somewhat sinister 
glance which her large dark eyes occasionally 
emitted. 

“ So, ma belle,” said J ean Aubray, as he still 
sat in his seat and made no attempt to rise from 
it — he not having acquired the manners of La 
vieille roche at the same time that he became 
possessed of their titles — “ so you have brought 
me some news. Well ! what ? ” 

“ I will tell you when I am seated,” the new- 
comer said, as she passed by him while giving 
one glance, half a glance, at his face from those 
dark eyes. Then she went on to where the great 
stone steps curved up towards the terraces of the 
chateau, and brought a light wicker chair down 
to where the man sat. But she made no further 
remark upon his lack of politeness and contented 
herself with regarding him as though waiting for 
some question to be asked her. Whereupon, he, 


80 


THE YEAR ONE 


falling in with what he understood her to mean 
and also because he was full of curiosity to hear 
whatever she might have to tell him (which he 
divined would be of considerable importance), 
said: 

“Well! has all happened as I thought? Has 
she escaped in the English ship ? ” 

For a moment she did not reply but, instead, 
held him, as she knew she was holding him, in 
suspense ; then she said quietly, 

“ She is within five minutes distance of this 
house. In that time she will be here.” 

He quitted his chair now, since excitement 
caused him to do that which a lack of good 
breeding had prevented him from doing earlier, 
and, jumping up hastily, stood before her in 
much agitation. 

“ Here ! ” he repeated, “here ! she will be here 
in five minutes ? Grand Dieu ! she is not gone 
then. And I ” 

“ And you will have to obtain your freedom 
by other means than pleading for a divorce from 
an emigree ,” the woman interrupted, while, as 
she spoke, there seemed to be almost a tone of 
triumph in her words. “ Oh ! fear not,” she con- 
tinued, “ there are such means — and sure ones — 
nowadays in France. Means equally as sure as 
divorce — or — more so,” while, as she spoke, her 
eyes, so large and starry, pierced his that were 
so small and twinkling. And as she looked at 
him she said to herself, “ Ay, and doubly sure. 


ADfiLE TELLS HER STORY 81 

Means that, once taken, leave no doubts behind 
as to their efficacy. None.” 

“Explain, Adele,” Jean Aubray said now. 
“Tell me all. Has she abandoned her intention, 
has she returned to plague me — to plague us ” 

“ She is a prisoner in the hands of the soldiers 
of the Legislative Assembly.” 

“The soldiers of the Legislative Assembly,” 
he exclaimed, repeating her words again as his 
excitement had caused him more than once to 
do. “ What does it mean ? What ? Tell me.” 

Briefly, Adele Satigny did tell him all that she 
knew, which was everything. For, during the 
whole of the preceding night, she had watched 
and listened as she took her place on the sand the 
moment after the launch of the “ Dragon ” had 
quitted the shore; and what she had not been 
able to see or hear by night, had been made clear 
to her when the day broke. She narrated also 
to Jean Aubray, with whom she seemed to be on 
terms of strange familiarity, how, when the dawn 
broke and she saw the boat so near to the land, she 
had fled swiftly towards the village and had sum- 
moned the local gendarmerie and the officer of 
the small force of artillery quartered at Bricourt 
(which formed a portion of a larger force dis- 
tributed all over what had been the ancient 
Province of Haute Bretagne) to come and arrest 
the would-be fugitives. 

“ And, mon Dieu ! ” Adele Satigny said now 
to her companion, “ they were willing enough to 


82 


THE YEAR ONE 


do so, especially when I told the officer that the 
man endeavouring to aid the aristocrat in her 
flight, was an English officer; the creature of 
that Pitt who promises to restore the Bourbons 
to their throne. Diable ! he does not hasten 
much.” 

“ But,” said Jean Aubray, “ what am I to do ? ” 
while as he asked the woman the question there 
came into the corner of each of his dark eyes a 
little yellow-brown speck, which seemed to 
twinkle in the last rays of the setting sun. “ I 
can commit them to the prison in Dinan and — 
and — well ! — a tribunal can be found to — let us 
say — to conclude the affair. But — but — this is 
Brittany— these cursed aristocrats are stronger 
here than elsewhere ; they will rise ere long in a 
counter revolution against us, and she is a d’ Au- 
bray. And, also, they despise me.” 

“ These,” said Adele Satigny, “ are the reasons 
why you should not commit them to the prison 
in Rennes. They are absolute reasons, since 
their trial would not be a fair one. Tu corn- 
er ends ! You can send them elsewhere — to — ah, 
mon Dieu! — to where, if all is true, they will 
get a fair trial, and a quick one. To ” 

“ To where ? ” 

“ To Paris.” 

For a moment the other looked at her while, 
as he did so, she saw very clearly those two glit- 
tering specks in his eyes and understood well 
enough by what intense agitation they were pro- 


ADfiLE TELLS HEK STOKY 


83 


duced ; then he said very slowly, and as if medi- 
tating very deeply : 

“ To Paris,” and drew a short, quick breath, 
while adding a moment later, “If I were but 
sure.” 

“Sure. Pschut! To-day is the 25th June.” 
Then, a moment later, the woman almost hissed 
in the other’s ear: “Have none yet told you 
what happened five days ago ? The mob entered 
the Tuileries and confronted the Ki — Louis Capet 
— and the Austrian woman, while the former 
assumed the red bonnet and she gave them rib- 
bands and May branches. What does that 
mean ? Say, Jean d’Aubray, what does it 
mean ? God ! it will be a bonnet of deeper 
red that they and every cursed aristocrat 
must yet wear, and — and — is not this woman 
— your wife, at present — an aristocrat though 
you, in truth, are none ? ” 

“ Yes,” he replied, still speaking slowly, while 
there was a calm in his tones that had in them 
something threatening — something that sounded 
menacing. “ Yes, yes — perhaps — perhaps — it 
must be — Paris. I know, I know, Danton 
is there ; he will see justice done to — me.” 

“ And,” whispered Adele Satigny to herself, 
“to me at last.” 

Then, speaking aloud, she said, “ Voyons , mon 
Jean , I have waited long, long ! — and once, five 
years ago, you broke a promise sworn to me be- 
cause your soul craved for this aristocrat, for any 


84 


THE YEAH ONE 


aristocrat who would become your wife. Well ! 
you got your way,” and she laughed a bitter 
caustic laugh while showing, as she did so, the 
whitest, most even set of little teeth. “ You got 
your way and your aristocratic wife. But — it 
was not a success ; say, was it, mon ami f ” and 
again she laughed. “ They, these aristocrats, 
scorned you — well ! no matter for that, you are 
one of the people now, one of the new rulers, the 
citizen Jean Aubray, and you have a duty to 
perform. Is it not so ? ” 

“ Yes,” he said, still speaking very slowly. 
“ Yes, I have a duty to perform. It is so.” 

“ That is well, and, now, you will perform all 
duties, keep all promises ! All ? Tu comprends ? ” 

“ All,” he answered, looking at her, though as 
he did so there came a troubled look into his 
eyes. A look that spoke of, maybe, some doubt, 
some fear, within him. “ All.” 

“ Soit , thus it is well.” Then, suddenly chang- 
ing her theme, she said : “ They should be here 

by now.” 

“ Here, they are bringing them here ! Bringing 
her to her own house ; the house of her family.” 

“ Why, yes, my friend. ’Tis for you to 
make the committal, is it not ? Her committal 
to ” 

“ To Paris ? ” he whispered. 

“To Paris,” she answered, “yes, you under- 
stand, you are not dense. To Paris.” 

“ I cannot do that myself. But I can examine 


ADfiLE TELLS HER STORY 


85 


them and then I can recommend the council of 
public safety at Rennes to do so. Upon that 
recommendation they will do it and, thus, we 
shall be quit of them.” 

“You will be quit of her; that is what you 
mean, I think.” 

“ That,” replied the other, looking her full in 
the face, “ is what we mean.” 

In reply to which remark Adele only laughed 
again as she had done before, and showed her 
little white teeth. 

Nor was there time for any more words to be 
exchanged between these two, even if they had 
desired that such should be the case, since, at this 
moment, there advanced down the same alley by 
which Adele Satigny had come, a party of about 
a dozen persons. Of this party, and walking at 
the head of it, was the officer of artillery who 
had trained the cannon on to the launch as she 
drifted helplessly near the shore a mile away 
from where the Chateau de Bricourt stood ; he 
being followed by some of his men while, in the 
rear, came the old stonecutter Pol and two or 
three of the villagers. 

But, between the soldiers and the civilians, 
there walked the two persons who were the most 
important of the group, and the cause of that 
group being where it was ; George Hope, and 
Lucienne. Lucienne, Marquise d’Aubray de Bri- 
court by birthright and succession, and now the 
wife of Jean Aubray, her judge. 


86 


THE YEAR ONE 


She had not been made a prisoner in any way 
beyond the fact that, surrounded as she now was 
by those who had captured her, it would be ut- 
terly impossible for her to escape and thus regain 
the freedom which she had once possessed ; but 
with her companion it was otherwise. His hands 
were bound together in front of him, while, on 
either side of him, there walked one of the artil- 
lerymen carrying a drawn sword. 

Thus Lucienne returned to the ancient home 
of her family from which she had endeavoured 
to escape ; thus the man who had striven so to 
help her saw, for the first time, that house. 


CHAPTER VIII 


CONTEMPT IS HATE — ASLEEP 

Jean Aubray and his female companion sat 
on in their chairs regarding the oncoming group 
which, in a few moments stood before them — the 
eyes of both Adele Satigny and Jean seeking 
those of Lucienne alone. Yet the glances which 
each bestowed upon the unhappy aristocrat were 
not alike, since, in the woman’s there was a look 
of spiteful malignity as well as triumph, while, 
in the man’s, there was an ill-assumed scowl of dis- 
dainful severity. Neither had, however, any 
power to stir the pulse of Lucienne, prisoner 
though she was ; while, on the other hand, her 
own calm and contemptuous regard, as it fell 
first upon one and then upon the other, moved 
each of them to their inmost fibres. For, if a 
glance could speak — and surely glances can ! — it 
conveyed as plainly as words could do, that those 
who sat before her were unworthy to be even in 
her presence. Yet the man of unknown and ig- 
noble origin, before whom she stood a prisoner, 
was her husband and her judge ; his friend — the 
woman whose mother had been her own mother’s 
maid — sat by and was to hear that judgment. 

87 


88 


THE YEAR ONE 


As for George Hope little need be told. One 
knows, or, not knowing can well imagine with 
what calm indifference, if not contempt, such a 
man would bear himself in similar circumstances. 
He was an English gentleman, an English naval 
officer, loyal and true to the sovereign whom he 
served, while those by whom he was surrounded 
served rulers who, at the best, were rebels to the 
long constituted authority of their country. 

“ Citizen,” said the officer of artillery, address- 
ing Aubray now, and speaking with a brevity 
which was admirable if only because it went 
straight to the point ; “ this woman endeavoured 
to depart from France in opposition to the law. 
This man endeavoured to aid her in doing so. 
Being near the shore after their attempt had 
failed, I arrested them. The law is precise upon 
the subject; any person endeavouring to leave 
France without permission ” 

“ I know the law, Citizen Commandant,” in- 
terrupted Aubray, “ you need not repeat it. Do 
you know it, citizeness ? ” he asked, turning his 
eyes upon his wife. 

“ I know,” replied Lucienne, and in her voice 
as in her glance there was a coldness, a con- 
tempt, that might have pierced an even more ig- 
noble heart than his ; “ of no law which can pre- 
vent an unhappy woman from endeavouring to 
flee from an unworthy husband. Doubtless, 
however, there are laws to punish such an at- 
tempt.” 


CONTEMPT IS HATE 


89 


“ There are, as I fear you will find to your 
cost. When you appear before those who have 
to judge of your acts, you will learn that they will 
regard you as an aristocrat desiring to become an 
emigree. Citizen Commandant,” continued Au- 
bray, “ you may announce to the citizeness, the 
decree referring to such persons.” 

“ Listen, citizeness,” said the captain of artil- 
lery, while producing a paper frdm his pocket, 
which he began to read. But— ere he had pro- 
ceeded half through his task, and had got no farther 
than the information that all persons who at- 
tempted to quit France without permission of the 
Legislative Assembly would, if captured, be tried 
as guilty of high treason against the State, and 
that their goods would be confiscated, according 
to a decree of February of this present year — 
Lucienne interrupted him. 

“ These things,” she said, “ are known to all in 
this land. There is not a tree, nor milestone, nor 
door of any public office, on wdiich is not affixed 
a notice of this fact. You need read no more.” 

“ There is, however, something more,” ex- 
claimed the officer, he doubtless understanding 
very well the reason why his female prisoner had 
endeavoured to prevent his reading the conclu- 
sion of the proclamation. “ It refers to the pun- 
ishment of those who endeavour to assist would- 
be emigrants in their flight.” 

“ Which,” said George Hope, interrupting in 
his turn, “ if you intend to read for my benefit, is 


90 


THE YEAR ONE 


also unnecessary. I have been ashore in your 
country before yesterday, and have perused your 
proclamation in various public places. Your in- 
formation is not required.” 

“ Therefore you know,” said Jean Aubray, 
“ what your actions expose you to equally as well 
as the citizeness Aubray knows to what her ac- 
tion has exposed her.” 

“ Yes, I know, and I have very little fear. The 
coalition of the civilised powers of Europe, my 
own country included, will doubtless put a stop 
to the power of your so-called government ere 
long. And, for the present, England and France 
are at peace. I am not afraid.” 

“Well! we shall see. Our ‘so-called govern- 
ment 9 works quickly.” 

But, to this, the other vouchsafed no further 
answer than such as might be afforded by a shrug 
of his shoulders. 

Yet, in his own heart, he knew that he had 
placed himself in deadly peril by the act which 
he had committed, though, at the same time, he 
did not intend to give this man and the handsome 
woman who sat by his side, the gratification of 
perceiving that he did know it. He was not ob- 
livious of the fact that, in endeavouring to assist 
an aristocrat to escape from France, he had com- 
mitted an offence in the eyes of the French gov- 
ernment for which there was a punishment swift 
and condign ; a punishment no less than death. 
And to this offence — which was one that might 


CONTEMPT IS HATE 


91 


have been glossed over or, at most, have been 
but lightly punished, since France and England 
were at peace and the Legislative Assembly 
feared nothing more than that England should 
join the other powers now awakening to the 
enormity of that Assembly’s acts — he had added 
another and a deeper one. He had slain, and 
caused to be slain, French sailors in the execution 
of their duty ; he, an officer of a still friendly 
power, or, at least, of a power with which this 
land wherein he stood was not at war, and, 
though he had received his captain’s permission 
to do what he had done, how would that avail 
him here ? Here ! where what was called a 
“ government ” was little short of an anarchic 
tyranny ; where men were already being tried 
and condemned in the morning, and hanged at 
night (since the guillotine had scarcely yet begun 
its horrible work), and where, in many cases, 
scarcely any records were being kept of their 
victims, while those which were kept were too 
often utterly inaccurate . 1 Indeed, he was not ig- 

1 As a proof that such was the case, records still in existence 
show that fathers were often executed in the names of their 
sons, mothers in the names of their daughters, brothers for 
brothers and vice versa, and, as often as not, strangers for 
strangers, with, in some cases, servants for masters, while, when 
the names were actually those of the persons who suffered, they 
were garbled out of all recognition in the spelling. Students 
may still spend days over these records searching for the proofs 
of a person’s execution who actually was executed, but whose 
name was recorded under a totally different one from his or her 


92 


THE YEAR ONE 


norant of the fact that this man sitting before 
him and regarding him with those glistening, 
beady eyes, might, if it so pleased him, hang him 
up upon the lawn on which he now stood a pris- 
oner ; and it was not only very doubtful but, also, 
almost certain that his fate would never be known 
in England. While, although George Hope did 
not actually know that which might very well be 
the case, this state of things was but the begin- 
ning of a worse one yet to come. 

One hope he had, however, a hope of safety not 
only for himself, but for his lovely companion in 
distress ; and that hope lay in his ship, the 
“ Dragon,” and in the stern, manly nature of her 
captain. For (if, as he thought must be the fact) 
she had gone in pursuit of “ Le Furieux ” in con- 
sequence of the failure of the launch to return, 
and when the captain of the “ Dragon ” would 
surely believe that he and Lucienne were prison- 
ers on board the former, that officer would un- 
doubtedly put back to Bricourt on discovering 

own. The accounts of the trials, also, are monuments of the 
awful injustice inflicted upon people whose descriptions had got 
confused. To give one instance out of hundreds, a cook, named 
Joan Clerc, who was locked up in the guard-house in Paris one 
night when intoxicated, was executed later as another person. 
Indeed, she was murdered for language she had never used, 
to people she had never seen, in a place where she had never 
been, upon a night when she was incarcerated elsewhere. Some 
French writers have found excuses for such things in stating 
that, as often as not, neither the jurors nor the presidents of the 
tribunals could read or write. 


CONTEMPT IS HATE 


93 


that such was not as he imagined. And then 
— then ! no power on earth, no so-called, supposi- 
titious peace between England and France would 
prevent the captain from taking a landing party 
ashore and scouring the country for miles around, 
not only in search of his own officer, but also of 
the lady to whom they were giving a passage to 
a ship flying the English flag. While also, were 
there not some of the sailors still alive in the 
launch, and would not they possibly be able to 
give information as to what had happened ? For 
he did not think that they had been made prison- 
ers as well, since, from the time that he and 
Lucienne had been taken ashore, he had seen no 
more of them. 

Yet now he was to learn what their fate had 
been. 

The Citizen Commandant was narrating to 
Jean Aubray the description of how his men 
had gone out and seized the boat after L* Anglais 
had slain two of them with the muskets, and how 
he had found it full of dead and dying sailors. 
He Avas narrating this as George made the above 
reflections, and he arrived now at the fate of the 
launch itself. 

“ Knowing, citizen,” he said, “ the savage fe- 
rocity and brutal nature of these English,” (doubt- 
less he forgot that he himself was an officer of 
the revolution) “ and that one can never be sure 
of what that ferocity may lead them to do, I took 
steps to prevent any of those men who might be 


94 


THE YEAR ONE 


alive, from endeavouring to assist these — these 
individuals ” 

“ Good ! ” exclaimed Aubray, “ good ! you are 
a true patriot. What did you do ? ” 

“ Doubtless he murdered them all ! ” exclaimed 
George. “ He did not hesitate to fire cannon at 
a boat containing a woman ; he would not be 
likely to spare wounded or dying men.” 

The Citizen Commandant gave a malignant 
grin as he glanced towards George while the 
latter spoke, and then he said : “ No, mon brave , 

no. You are wrong. Knowing the love of all 
your countrymen for the sea, over which, I 
understand, you consider yourselves to have full 
sway and empire, I caused it to be sent adrift 
again ; ma foi ! if the sun and the lack of fresh 
water does not finish those men’s business, you 
must be even more tough than you boast of be- 
ing. Yet, since there was a strong tide running 
out to sea, they may drift over to your beloved 
England, if one of our French vessels does not 
encounter them and sink them with a round 
shot.” 

During all that had been said, one person of 
the group, and she an important one, had uttered 
no word, but had sat as still as a statue, while 
looking straight before her. Once, indeed, when 
Lucienne and George had first been brought be- 
fore Aubray, she had raised her eyes to those of 
the other woman with a bold defiant stare in 
which there was an expression of both mockery 


CONTEMPT IS HATE 


95 


and insult. Yet the answering look which she 
saw in Lucienne’s own eyes — if indeed, it was 
meant to be an answering one — was such that 
she blanched and quailed before it. She did not 
do so, however, from fear — for what had she to 
fear from one who was a prisoner and that a 
prisoner already doomed ; who must be doomed ? 
— but because there was so deep a disdain in 
those more calm and haughty eyes, so withering 
a look of patrician indifference and contempt for 
this low-born rival, that the latter was subdued. 
She was subdued and crushed in this the hour of 
her ignoble triumph by one who stood before her 
a lost woman, yet one who, even in her down- 
fall, despised her. 

But if she turned her eyes no more towards 
Lucienne, she turned them now towards the man 
sitting by her side and, with them, asked a 
question of him; the question “What next?” 
Whereupon he said — while rousing himself from 
an almost lethargic meditation into which he ap- 
peared to have fallen during the recital of the 
“Citizen Commandant” — and addressing both 
the captives : 

“ It is impossible for me to give any decision 
as to what is to be done with either of you. 
You both come before me in my capacity of 
mayor of the commune, as appointed by the 
Legislative Assembly. You must go to Rennes 
where there is a National Court, and then it will 
be decided what steps are to be taken — to — well 


THE YEAE ONE 


— well ! to arrive at a judgment. Sir,” he con- 
tinued, addressing George, and it was observed 
by all who heard him that he spoke now in a 
grave and decorous manner, well befitting one 
who adjudicated upon the case of others. “ Sir, 
you belong to another country, to one at peace 
with ours ; yet you have seen fit to outrage us. 
I know not what may be your fate but it will not 
be in my hands.” 

“ I can meet it,” answered George Hope, “ no 
matter from what source it springs.” 

“ Doubtless, doubtless,” muttered Aubray, still 
in quiet, unemotional tones. Then, turning to 
his wife, he said — and still all present noticed 
that his voice was tuneless and dead, and that it 
might well have issued from the lips of some 
magistrate addressing a woman he saw for the 
first time. “ As for you, citizeness Aubray, you 
have thought it well to endeavour to emigrate 
from this country while knowing what laws have 
been passed recently, both as to the prevention 
of emigration and the punishment thereof. You 
have seen fit to quit your husband’s roof while 
aware that that husband has espoused the cause 
of the people and the rights of that people. 
There is nothing for me to say. By your own 
act you must be judged.” 

“ I, too, can meet the consequences of my own 
act,” Lucienne replied, calm and unmoved as be- 
fore. “ I am not the first person by some thou- 
sands who, since ’89, has endeavoured to quit 


CONTEMPT IS HATE 


97 


this unhappy country, nor shall I be the last. 
While, when those who have to judge me hear 
all that I have to tell, it may be that, in spite of 
the principles they have adopted, they will do 
me justice.” After which, and as though she 
desired neither further conversation nor further 
sight of those who were sitting before her, she 
turned her head away from them, whereby her 
glance fell, as it could only fall in such a case, 
upon the countenance of George Hope. 

“Forgive me,” she whispered to him, and to 
his astonishment she spoke in English. “For- 
give me for what I have brought you to.” 

While he, not trusting himself to speak, told 
her by one look that there was no need for her 
to ask pardon from him. Nay, if that look con- 
veyed all that he desired it should do, it also told 
her that, if any power might ever enable him to 
help her further, that power would be manfully 
exerted. 

“Here,” said Aubray, who had been writing 
busily with a pencil for some moments, to the 
“ Citizen Commandant,” “ is the order for their 
reception in the prison at Eennes ; it will only be re- 
quired of you, citizen, to give similar evidence to 
that which you have given me. N o more is needed , 
since you took both prisoners after the act of at- 
tempted escape on the woman’s part, and the act 
of assisting her on the man’s. As you know, 
Eennes is but fifteen leagues from here, a waggon 
will convey you and your men and the prisoners.” 


98 


THE YEAR ONE 


“ Where is this waggon, citizen ? ” 

“In my stables. Horses shall be put to it. 
Meanwhile, I will ask you to refresh yourself 
and your men. The prisoners shall also be seen 
to. The Assembly treats all well who fall into 
its hands.” 

“ At least until they are found guilty,” replied 
the “ Citizen Commandant ” with a smile. 

“ Yes, until they are found guilty,” replied 
Aubray in a voice so low that none heard him 
but the officer and one other, Adele Satigny. 

Adele Satigny, who repeated inwardly the 
words, or almost the same words the two men 
had uttered, whereby the words which she 
whispered to herself were : 

“ Until she is found guilty.” 


CHAPTER IX 


UPON THE ROAD 

A lumbering waggon, with, over it, a hood 
of glazed canvas stretched upon a frame, halted 
some five weeks or so later outside the town of 
Dreux, while the three white horses, which in 
truth were a dirty grey from the dust of the 
roads, bent their heads together and drank long 
and thirstily from a trough placed by the side of 
the road. 

In that waggon a number of people was 
seated, few of whom appeared to have much 
that was in common with each other individ- 
ually, though, if divided into two groups and 
thus considered, each group might have been re- 
garded as formed of persons of a similar condi- 
tion. For the first was composed of prisoners 
on their way to Paris, there to be tried for crimes 
committed, or imagined, against the govern- 
ment ; the second was composed of prison ward- 
ers having the others in their charge. 

Along the hot and dusty roads that waggon 
had come during the torrid heat of July, it hav- 
ing passed on its way from Rennes by cool woods 
and over bridges spanning the streams, and by 
99 


L.ofC. 


100 


THE YEAR ONE 


farmhouses with orchards round them in which 
the branches of the tre,es were almost bowed to 
the earth by the weight of ripening fruit ; and 
so, at last, it had arrived outside Dreux, which 
is forty miles west of Paris. Upon the journey, 
those within that waggon other than the gaolers 
and the two carters, who were free men, had 
looked frequently with longing eyes at the laden 
pear and plum trees, and more often still at the 
wells from which children and old women were 
drawing up the ice-cold water ; and equally as 
often at the shade beneath the trees in the 
woods, while dreaming, perhaps, of their own 
neighbouring woods where once, in bygone sum- 
mers, they had lain plunged in the ferns and 
long lush grass. But those days were gone, they 
reflected silently or whispered to each other; 
they might never see their own homes again nor 
the woods outside their own towns, nor the 
rivers that lapped those woods; they might, in 
truth, soon have no eyes with which to see even 
the hot baked streets of Paris and the crowds of 
which they had heard. For they were all crim- 
inals, or at least deemed to be criminals, and 
they were going to Paris to be tried for their 
lives. 

These unhappy prisoners were indeed, a 
strangely assorted group. On the left side of 
Lucienne d’Aubray — the citizeness Aubray ! — 
there sat an old woman bent double with years ; 
a poor old creature whose face was lined and 


UPON THE ROAD 


101 


seared with wrinkles as well as being burnt 
brown from labour in the fields ; an old infirm 
woman who was accused of having sent, or tried 
to send, a few silver pieces sewed up between 
cards to her grandson who had emigrated ! By 
the side of George Hope, who himself sat next 
to Lucienne on her right, was a French sailor 
from St. Malo who was accused of having seen a 
large English fleet hovering for some days be- 
tween Jersey and the French coast, yet was so 
unpatriotic that he had not warned the authori- 
ties of the fact ; and this was his crime ! Then, 
by the side of this man was a girl of eighteen 
who had said at Fougeres that she could never 
believe the king assumed the red bonnet will- 
ingly, and that force must have been used to 
make him do so ; while next to her, was an old 
notary who acted as intendant or steward, to the 
Marquis Guy de Geneste, who had escaped to 
England. To this master the intendant had for- 
warded money, wherefore he was now on his 
way to be also tried for his life. Yet, even 
worse than all this, was the presence of young 
Raoul de Geneste himself, — a boy of sixteen who 
had been left behind with an uncle by his father, 
until the latter could find means to send for them. 
But the uncle had died suddenly in a fit, the boy 
had been discovered hiding in the Chateau de 
Geneste, and he was now on his way to Paris to 
be tried for being — the son of his father ! His 
mother was dead, so that he stood alone in the 


102 


THE YEAH ONE 


world with nothing but a prison and, probably, 
something else before him. 

All these had left the prison at Rennes a week 
ago, while, ahead of them, as well as following 
them, were other waggons filled with prisoners. 
For in that town there was as yet no tribunal 
which felt itself called upon to exercise the high- 
est judicial functions — while, also, something else 
of considerable importance was wanting. The 
guillotine had been adopted as the instrument by 
which all persons were to be executed (one reason 
being, that the aristocrats should no longer alone 
possess the privilege of suffering decapitation) 
and a large number had been ordered for use in 
provincial cities. They were not, however, manu- 
factured at present, and their non-existence was, 
consequently, one reason why hundreds of per- 
sons were sent to Paris for trial, and — as a nat- 
ural sequence — for execution. 

At Rennes, George and Lucienne had been de- 
tained for a very short time, since in that town 
there was scarcely any accommodation for sus- 
pects or detenus , slight as such accommodation 
ordinarily was, since it generally consisted of a 
stone-flagged cell in which a dozen people were 
often flung pell-mell. The old prison had been 
destroyed in the great conflagration of seventy 
years before, and what still served as places of 
detention were very meagre in their capacity. 
There were, however, private houses in which 
well-to-do prisoners might be lodged while either 


UPON THE KOAD 


103 


awaiting examination by Le Comite , or their 
transport to Paris; and in one of these which 
was kept by a gendarme, George and Lucienne 
found themselves. Here, for a dozen livres a 
day, each had a room, while they might have for 
provisions anything which they chose to order 
and to pay for. 

To women is given more often than not the 
power to divine something in our circumstances 
which we, because of our manhood, would never 
venture to divulge to them ; and so it was with 
Lucienne. She divined ere they had been in this 
maison cP arret a day, that George had no money 
about him wherewith to pay for any necessities 
which he might require; while she, who had 
hoped to escape to England and never more to 
set eyes on France — if, by doing so, she should 
be compelled to see her husband again — had 
carefully concealed about her (principally in her 
hair) a large sum of money, or, at least, a sum 
which would be sufficient for her requirements 
for many months to come. She had, therefore, 
unknown to her companion or, as she had called 
him more than once, her champion, made all ar- 
rangements with the gendarme for the hire of 
the two rooms, and had also given to the man’s 
daughter the wherewithal to provide their meals. 

“But,” exclaimed George when he learnt all 
this, as he did almost at once, and when 
he recognised that the time had come for 
him to speak out plainly and without false 


104 THE YEAR ONE 

shame, “ how is it all to be paid for ? I have 
no ” 

“ Hush ! hush ! ” Lucienne said, stopping him 
at once. “ Oh ! hush. What ! have I brought 
you to this pass — God forgive me! have I led 
you into this snare — and is a question of money 
to arise ? I beg you never to speak of it again 
so long as we are together ; so long as we are 
fellow-prisoners. All that I have is yours. 
Nay,” she said, seeing that he was about to in- 
terrupt her ; “ do not reply. And — and — since 
we are alone,” which they were, as now they 
were eating their first meal in the gendarme’s 
parlour, “ I desire to hand over to your keeping 
all that I have ; all ” 

“It is impossible,” George said, “impossible. 
Even though I may let you pay for my small 
necessaries ; even though I may borrow from you 
until I can some day obtain my own, I must not 
let you confide your money to me. It is impos- 
sible,” he repeated, while adding — “ and we may 
be separated ere long.” 

“ Yes,” she said, with a glance at him from 
those eyes that, even in sorrow and distress, 
could not lose their loveliness. “Yes, we may,” 
while there was an emphasis in her words that 
he could not fail to understand. “We may,” she 
repeated. “ It is more than likely.” 

“ It cannot be as you think,” George said, as 
he discontinued the sorry meal that they were 
making— sorry, because the small resources of 


UPON THE ROAD 


105 


Rennes were taxed to their utmost now by the 
fact of there being some three hundred rebels 
(rebels !) in the town, as well as a large number 
of the eleventh battalion of Paris soldiers quar- 
tered there ; for, already, the whole of Brittany 
was regarded as a hotbed of counter revolution ; 
the impending war of La Yendee was — like a 
thunderstorm coming up against the wind — 
making itself heard by far-off mutterings, while 
turbulent outbreaks had already taken place in 
the town itself. It was well, the government 
thought, that there should be none but those 
soldiers quartered in it who had no connection 
with the neighbourhood. 

“ It is as I think,” Lucienne said now in answer 
to George’s remark. “ It cannot be otherwise. I 
am a would-be emigree , taken in the act ; at pres- 
ent it is the worst crime one can commit.” 

“You were fleeing from a bad husband and 
not from the country, that alone should stand 
you in good stead.” 

“Yes, it was from him that I was fleeing. 
But — he has espoused what is called the cause of 
the people; partly because we, those to whom 
such as I belong, despised him. Partly, too, be- 
cause those who have forced their wa y into the 
circles of the upper classes are regarded as 
even worse than those who were borne into 
them. And he feared what might happen 
to him. To-morrow — in a month’s time — in 
a year — if the king’s cause should ever rise 


106 THE YEAR ONE 

again, he would return to it — also through 
fear.” 

There was silence between them for some time 
after this, a silence which George would will- 
ingly have broken had not delicacy prevented 
him from doing so. For he was very desirous 
of knowing who and what that other woman was 
who had already played so fateful a part in the 
troubles of this unhappy aristocrat — that dark- 
eyed, cruel-looking, though handsome woman, to 
whom was undoubtedly owing the fact that Lu- 
cienne had failed in her endeavour to escape 
with him. Yet he thought that he could guess, 
he thought that the very manner in which she 
had sat by Aubray’s side when he and his com- 
panion were brought before him, told its own 
tale. There was no need to wound Lucienne by 
asking any questions. 

The silence was broken, however, by Lucienne 
herself, who said suddenly : 

“ Think me not indifferent to your fate, I be- 
seech you, while I talk of my own. But in truth, 
I feel sure that you have little to fear. Already 
France dreads the coalition forming against her, 
and doubly dreads that England will join it. 
They will not dare to hang you, especially since you 
had your captain’s permission for what you did.” 

“I am under no apprehension,” George re- 
plied, “ in spite of my having killed some French- 
men in our attempt to reach the ‘ Dragon.’ That 
I shall be punished — perhaps imprisoned — is more 


UPON THE KOAD 


107 


than likely, but, up to now, this new order of 
things, this new government has not shown any 
particular desire for cruelty.” 

“ Up to now,” were his words. “ Up to now ! ” 
And, so far, what he said was the case. For it 
was at present only the beginning of July, there 
was still a month and more ere there should 
dawn the first black day in the most awful cal- 
endar of blood and cruelty that the world has 
ever known — the day that must ever stand forth 
hideous and revolting in the world’s record. The 
10th of August ! Could he have foreseen that 
day now drawing so near, even as they talked 
together ; the day which should usher in what 
has been called the “ human haemorrhage,” the 
slaughter of old and young, of innocent men and 
women ; of dotards, such as Dupin, aged ninety- 
seven, and children aged fourteen, such as Charles 
Dubost, would he have felt so little fear for him- 
self? Or — could this brave young sailor have 
known that, upon that day of awful crimes, he 
would himself, as would also this fair young 
woman who was his fellow-prisoner, stand 
amongst a seething, maddened crowd all drunk 
with the long-felt and now gratified lust of 
blood — would he have spoken as confidently as 
he did? Mercifully, however, he was not per- 
mitted to peer into the future, nor through the 
dusky veil that hung between him and coming 
events, no matter how much those events might 
cast their shadows before. 


108 


THE YEAR ONE 


Upon the next morning, they both, in common 
with some fifty others, were taken before the 
tribunal which was empowered to decide whether 
they should either be acquitted at once as inno- 
cent of any serious misdemeanour against the 
government, or forwarded to Paris there to ap- 
pear before what was called La haute gout na- 
tionale on charges termed, in the act of accusa- 
tion, “ high treason against the State.” And of 
every one of the number, which was composed 
of aristocrats, male and female, of road-menders 
and old women who had earned their livings in 
the fields and farms, of priests and shopgirls, 
lawyers and filles perdues , of sailors and trades- 
men, not one was released ! All were deemed 
sufficiently guilty and were sent forward. While, 
since justice herself was a thing which, by some 
strange oversight, had been more or less for- 
gotten, no witnesses accompanied them, since 
their written depositions were considered quite 
sufficient to either slay or acquit the suspects 
when they should be tried in Paris. 

In the place which was called a court, George 
and Lucienne saw Jean Aubray seated, a picture 
of grave and dignified distress, while near him, 
as ever, was the woman known as Adele Satigny, 
she having upon her face the same look of in- 
tense malignity as before. On the bench where 
the tribunal sat, were bottles and glasses and 
pipes — a sign not so much of debauchery as of a 
free and easy equality existent, at last, amongst 


UPON THE ROAD 


109 


all — before them were papers, which, in some 
cases, but not all, were supposed to be the writ- 
ten evidence of witnesses. One form or kind 
of pretended justice was, however, indulged in, 
since, as each prisoner passed through the door 
leading into the so-called court, his or her Acte 
(P accusation was thrust into their hands. An 
Acte d? accusation, which some could not read 
and others did not understand — partly owing to 
their terror ! — and which in more than one case, 
and notably in those of Lucienne and of George, 
was thrust contemptuously into a pocket after a 
casual glance had been bestowed on it. Then, 
amidst the rapid mumblings of the president, 
who, perhaps, was one of those officials who 
hardly knew his alphabet, a glance would occa- 
sionally be shot by this personage at the sup- 
posed witness — supposed, because, very often, the 
wrong person was regarded — who had tended 
this evidence, as though affirmation of it was 
sought for. Indeed the whole of this examina- 
tion was a farce that, in less terrible circum- 
stances, might have been ludicrous, but which, 
owing to those very circumstances, was, in sober 
truth, a weird and ghastly tragedy. 

This mockery of a tribunal sat every day as it 
had now been sitting for some time ; and every 
day those who have long since made their appear- 
ance before such a travesty of preliminary justice 
were, when their turn came, forwarded to Paris, 
as all over France from north to south and east 


110 


THE YEAR ONE 


to west similar droves of human beings were 
being forwarded, so that the roads of the land 
were black with them. And, at last, after an- 
other period of detention in the maison d* arret, 
the turn of Lucienne and George came, too. 

At five o’clock on a superb July morning, a 
gendarme strode into the room occupied by 
George, while another hammered and beat upon 
the door of Lucienne’s — had he not been a man 
with daughters of his own, he, too, would proba- 
bly have strode into her room, since neither male 
nor female suspects were allowed to have a door 
which locked — and bade them both arise. 

“ Levez vous ,” these men cried ; “ pay all you 
owe and follow us. Also, leave behind all 
knives, scissors, rasors and other weapons. We 
want no brawls upon the road. For clothes, 
each may take a packet a foot square. Vite , mes 
amis , vite ; the line is being formed. The men 
will have to walk and ride by turns, the women 
will go in the waggons, en route pour la belle 
Paris ! ” 

While, as Lucienne hastily arrayed herself for 
the departure, she heard one of the fellows hum- 
ming to himself a then popular song beginning : 


“ Quand ils m’ auront decapite 
Je n’ aurai plus besoin de nez. 


CHAPTER X 


DRAWING NEAR 

Since there were none amongst the prisoners 
in the waggon who could understand a word of 
any language but their own, or who, even if they 
had been able to do so, would have repeated 
what they overheard, Lucienne and George were 
able to converse at perfect ease in the language 
of the latter. They did not, however, always 
use English since, otherwise, they might have 
offended the susceptibilities of those amongst 
whom they had to pass some days upon the road, 
but only did so when they happened to be more 
or less out of earshot of the others. This was a 
thing which occurred frequently since, whenever 
the waggon halted for the horses to be refreshed, 
they were all allowed to descend and sit down 
by the roadside, while, at these spots, the change 
was generally made between those who were 
now entitled to ride and those who had to walk 
in their turn ; while many who were permitted 
to ride all the way — these being the women — 
often elected to use their feet and thus get some 
exercise. 

And now, as the waggon stopped outside 
ill 


112 


THE YEAR ONE 


Dreux, those two companions so strangely thrown 
together (and each of whom thought it highly 
probable that, though they might be parted in 
Paris, they would meet again upon a common 
ground — the tribunal, or the scaffold) stood and 
talked by the wayside. 

“ It is agreed, then,” said George, “ that we 
make our escape if possible? Yet, I know not 
how it is to be done; while more especially I 
know not how we can do it together. The 
soldiers are before and behind us ; these men,” 
and he indicated the warders and waggoners as 
he spoke, “ keep very close to us. If it were not 
for the former we might easily overpower the 
others.” 

“ I fear it would be useless,” Lucienne replied. 
“ Even though we might escape for the time we 
should merely be recaptured. And you remem- 
ber that which was read out to us at Rennes : 
‘Whosoever, man or woman, endeavours to es- 
cape, or escapes and is recaptured, will be in- 
stantly shot without trial.’ For myself,” she 
continued, “ I care not. As well a bullet as this 
new instrument of death of which they speak. 
But for you, mon ami , for you ! Oh, God ! if 
that were to happen and I were left behind, even 
for a week, a day, I should go mad. Mad, or 
slay myself.” 

But still George pondered on what chances of 
escape might come their way, even while he re- 
solved that he would avail himself of none which 


DB AWING NEAB 


113 


should not also bring freedom to Lucienne. 
Never, he told himself, would he do that. They 
were united now by a common bond of danger ; 
a danger that undoubtedly grew more menacing 
as they approached the capital, since it was easy 
to be observed that the soldiers of the eleventh 
battalion marched nearer to them than before. 
A growing danger of which they heard from 
people with whom they could sometimes ex- 
change a word in the towns where they slept. 

Moreover, how could he ever leave this woman 
until the day should come, if it ever did come, 
when he could do so in safety ? How could he 
leave her, knowing for a certainty that she was 
doomed beyond all hope, unless one thing should 
happen — her escape. And how could she escape 
without him ? While, also, he knew, he felt, 
that even if such a chance should come in her 
way, she would not take it, unless he also could 
obtain his freedom. No ! he whispered to him- 
self, they were together now for good or evil 
until both were free or both were dead. Then, 
if the former should happen, which, he did not 
disguise from himself, was a most unlikely thing 
to happen, it would be time to think of parting. 
“ Of parting,” he repeated to himself, and drew a 
long breath as he did so. Of parting ! Heavens ! 
it seemed impossible that they should ever part 
now, except in one way. The way in which, if 
all accounts were true, so many were about to 
part from those who were near and dear to them. 


114 


THE YEAR ONE 


All in the waggon and all, also, who were in 
the one preceding them, as well as in that which 
followed them, slept this night in a church in 
Dreux, the women in the left aisle and the men 
in the right, and here they partook either of the 
meals which were dealt out to them or of those 
which they could afford to buy. Amongst the men , 
the lawyer and the young boy Raoul de Geneste 
were, with George, the only persons who had 
any money to do the latter, George spending 
some of that which he happened to have in his 
pocket when he last quitted the “ Dragon ” ; or 
rather some of the French assignats which he 
had taken in exchange for an English crown or 
two. But, amongst the other men of their party, 
not one seemed able to purchase anything from 
the vendors who brought cooked food into the 
church, and these were, consequently, forced 
to put up with the black bread and rancid bacon 
distributed amongst them by the warders. 

“ My friend,” said George, to the sailor from 
St. Malo, “ that is a poor supper before you ; let 
me offer you a drink from this bottle of wine and 
a slice of this meat ; it is better than the govern- 
ment allowance.” 

“ Merci ,” said the sailor, accepting the offer 
eagerly. “ Merci. Mon Dieu ! how much longer 
are we going to be treated like cattle in a hold or 
a drove of sheep upon a road? When do we 
arrive at this infernal Paris they speak of ? ” 

“ To-morrow,” said young Raoul de Geneste, 


BE A WING NEAE 


115 


while tossing a pear to a shop boy who sat near 
to him and with whom he had struck up an ac- 
quaintance on the journey, in spite of the differ- 
ence in their rank and position. “To-morrow. 
I heard a warder say we must start at four 
o’clock for two reasons. One is that they want 
to use the church for the gangs coming behind 
us ; the other that we must complete the remain- 
ing thirteen leagues in the day.” 

“ To-morrow ! ” repeated George. “ So that 
we shall be prisoners under lock and key by 
then. Ah, well! ’twill be so much nearer the 
end.” 

At which words the lawyer groaned piteously 
and the shop boy turned white, while young 
Geneste curled a disdainful lip and cursed the 
canaille in the contemptuous manner which he 
had acquired from his father and uncle. 

“ If we five were all men” said the sailor to 
George in a low tone of voice ; “ if you were 
men,” and he glanced at the notary and the 
pallid shop boy as well as at the young aristo- 
crat, “ something might be done, especially as 
there are others from the waggons down there,” 
and he pointed along the aisle. “ Amongst us 
we might throttle these cursed gaolers as they 
sleep and perhaps escape thus ” 

“ As for me,” cried Geneste, interrupting ; “ I 
would cut all their throats with pleasure, but for 
one thing — my hands would be soiled with their 
vulgar blood.” 


116 


THE YEAR ONE 


“ And I have a lady to protect,” said George. 
“ If I could make sure that she would escape 
with me, I would attempt anything.” 

“ All attempts would be useless,” the lawyer 
said, speaking in a low and shaking tone. 
“ The soldiers will bivouac outside and around 
the church to-night, as they have done at all the 
places we have stopped at. We should have 
thought of this earlier if we had intended to do it 
at all, and when the soldiers did not keep so near 
us.” 

“ Peste ! that is true,” the sailor said. “ I, too, 
should have ” 

“ Silence, all you down there,” roared out a 
voice now, proceeding from one of the warders 
at the church door. a Hark, the church clock 
strikes ten ; at four to-morrow we must be ready 
to set out on the last stage. We go straight to 
Paris to-morrow.” 

“ And you may go to the devil,” said the boy 
Raoul, in no very subdued tones, tones full of 
that contempt for the people which he had in- 
herited from his ancestors. 

“ As you will go to your doom ere long, sale 
aristocrate ,” the man called back through the 
darkness ; “ boy though you are.” 

After which episode silence did at last fall on 
all within that church, and most of the weary 
prisoners slept. George was, however, not one 
of those who did so, since, although he thought 
but little of what might be his fate, Lucienne 


DRAWING NEAR 


117 


was never absent from his mind. For, how was 
it possible for him to ignore the terrible position 
in which she stood ? She had, undoubtedly, en- 
deavoured to emigrate, to quit France ; and who 
would believe her when she stated that it was 
not to fly from her country but from her husband 
that she had done so ? Who would be desirous 
of believing her word, the word of a woman de- 
scended from the oldest and highest of the 
noblesse , against that of a man who had once 
been enabled to become a member of the noblesse 
and had then — as he stated — discarded that no- 
bility in scorn and had again become one of the 
people. He undoubtedly would not state that 
her emigration was due to a desire to escape from 
him, and he would be aided in anything he might 
choose to advance against his wife (who was al- 
ready accursed in the eyes of the people, owing 
to her high birth), by that other woman who was 
her enemy. 

“ That other woman ! Ah ! ” said George to 
himself, “ there is the second, if not the chief, of 
all Lucienne d’Aubray’s woes. What was it she 
told me yesterday as we halted in the woods out- 
side Mortagne ? What ! That this fellow, this 
Aubray as he is called, having wronged that 
woman once, had promised her marriage and had 
then repudiated the promise since he found that 
he could make the Marquise his wife. And that 
now — now — there can be no doubt Adele Satigny 
looks forward to obtaining the fulfillment of that 


118 


THE YEAR ONE 


promise at last. By — by — oh, God ! by her ri- 
val’s death, and that a death which she has brought 
upon her own head by her attempt to quit the 
country. Heaven help her ! If that other woman 
but pursues the advantage she has already gained, 
if she has but stated what truly happened — and 
she need tell no lies since the facts alone are 
damning ! — Lucienne d’Aubray is lost. Lost be- 
yond all hope ! ” 

And, with a groan, George cast himself down 
at the foot of the monument against which he 
had been reclining, and endeavoured to sleep 
while wondering as he did so, if, over there, on 
the other side of the church, she of whom he 
thought so much, could sleep herself. 

That he had been able to obtain some rest, he 
understood when, a few hours later, all wdthin 
the edifice were aroused by the pealing of the 
bugle outside it. For it was half-past three 
o’clock ; already the sickly grey ness which pre- 
cedes the dawn was stealing in through the win- 
dows of the church ; the time had come for them 
to set out upon the last stage of their journey 
towards the capital. The last stage of a journey 
which, as many of the unhappy accused knew, 
would be also the final stage of their journey 
through existence. They knew it, they could not 
doubt it, since France had already been torn by 
revolution and almost anarchy for three years, by 
a tyranny which as day followed day was grow- 
ing worse. Yet what had still to come, what was 


DRAWING NEAR 


119 


to come ere this very day now dawning should 
have closed, none could guess nor dream of. 

At the first muster in two lines of all outside 
the church, it was at once apparent to at least 
five persons among the number that any hopes 
of possible escape, however slight, were gone. 
For, now, thrown down in the churchyard, were 
huge coils of ropes which the warders, assisted by 
a number of men of the eleventh battalion, were 
already lifting up and handling. 

“ For to-day, mes enfants ,” said one of those 
men, who was the best natured among all his 
companions, and had eased the journey to many 
by his kindheartedness, “ for to-day, the men will 
have to go corded. We have arrived so far in 
safety and without trouble ; we must finish well 
and make a good entrance into Paris. Now, here 
are some pretty little pieces of jewellery for the 
men who ride in the waggon — for those who walk 
there is la chaine. Ha! mon Dieu , la chaine. 
Voyons ! think of that. La chaine. Imagine, my 
children, that it is the contre-danse you are in- 
dulging in upon the village green and, lo ! you 
will be as gay as though it were a May-day fete. 
Allons , mes braves .” 

Whereupon he, assisted by the other gaolers, 
placed handcuffs of rope on the wrists of all who 
were to ride, while those who were to walk were 
attached to each other at intervals of three feet. 
“ As for the ladies,” he cried, when this task, 
which took some time, was concluded, “ well ! it 


120 


THE YEAH ONE 


needs not to say that we are gallant admirers of 
the sex. We repose our trust in their honour and 
beauty, as well as the gentleness of their nature. 
They will not be corded.” 

“Why! you might almost be a gentleman,” 
said the heir of all the Genestes, while looking 
up at his custodian with a scornful and saucy 
smile which he could not have repressed, even 
though the newly-adopted guillotine had stood 
before him. “ Foi de Geneste ! we may have 
been wrong in our judgments after all,” he con- 
tinued, with a sneer. 

“Citizen,” replied the other, looking down 
gravely at him, “you aristocrats have all been 
very wrong. In your pride of race you have ig- 
nored the fact that human nature is human na- 
ture whether covered by riches and satins or by 
rags. You were wrong on a certain Saint Bar- 
tholomew’s Eve ; you were wrong in the South 
of this land — in the Cevennes — and you have al- 
ways been wrong. I hope you may not have to 
suffer too heavily for the evil doings of your fore- 
fathers.” 

With something like a feeling of weird horror 
creeping over his young form, the boy looked up 
at the man who spoke to him thus, while, as he 
did so, some light seemed to break in upon him 
as to what had caused the great social upheaval 
that was now going on all around. And it was 
accompanied, too, by another light — one that 
seemed to be cast before by some dreadful swift- 


DRAWING NEAR 


121 


approaching calamity. Then, remembering all 
the lessons he had been taught from a child, rec- 
ollecting how he had been told that he and his 
were as far removed from the people as from the 
pigs in their styes, or as the angels were from the 
worms, he shrugged his shoulders, while saying 
lightly : 

“ So be it ! The sins of the fathers — if they 
were sins — shall be visited on the children. We 
have been told that long ago. Let it please God 
that we, who are the children, may know how to 
bear the visitation.” 

“You were wrong,” said Lucienne to him 
gently, a moment or so later, “ to speak thus to 
that man. He has been kind to us all upon the 
route, and it is no part of a gentleman’s conduct 
to make another feel his inferiority.” 

But, now, they and the other two groups of 
prevenus set out upon that last stage, upon that 
last journey which the majority of them were 
ever to make in this world. And some went for- 
ward gaily, some in fear and trembling, some 
cursing and blaspheming at their lot, and several 
in utter ignorance of why they were being sent 
to Paris at all. But still they went on, relieving 
each other in the waggons by turns, halting for 
shade and water beneath the trees, wondering 
where they would be incarcerated in Paris and 
in what kind of places, and how long they would 
be ere they were set free or ! 

But always on towards Paris, through towns 


122 


THE YEAR OJSTE 


and villages, in some of which they were hissed 
and jeered at and in others treated kindly. 
While, if Raoul de Geneste scarcely understood 
why a great corpulent woman, with a red cap on 
her head, should have suddenly burst into tears 
and insisted on kissing his fair young face, Luci- 
enne at least had no doubt of why men — also 
with red caps — gazed pityingly at her and some- 
times offered her an egg or a bunch of grapes, or 
a glass of water from the well. 

She understood well enough that these men, 
whose ferocity slumbered for a moment, knew to 
what she was going. 


CHAPTER XI 


HELVETIORUM FIDEI AC VIRTUTI 

The cool night breezes had come as a blessed 
draught from heaven after the burning heat of 
the almost tropical August day, and had brought 
upon its wings a feeling of delicious freshness. 
Soothed by it, several of the occupants of the 
waggon, in which were George and Lucienne, 
had fallen asleep at last and directly after the 
final halt had been made at Versailles, their 
heads being bent forward on their breasts if old 
and worn, while, among the younger prisoners, 
many reclined with their heads upon their com- 
rades’ shoulders. Of these latter, the boy, Raoul 
de Geneste, slept peacefully by Lucienne’s side. 

But she was not asleep herself, nor was her 
companion, George, who sat upon her other side 
and with whom she conversed in a low tone, so 
that the slumbers of the rest might not be dis- 
turbed. 

That she should have slept would, indeed, have 
been impossible at this time — a time when, as 
she very well knew, the hour was close at hand 
for each of them to be consigned to some gloomy 
prison or dungeon, or maison d arret, from which, 
123 


124 


THE YEAR ONE 


in all probability, there would be but one exit — 
an exit to the tribunal first, and then to the 
charrette , or tumbril, with, for conclusion, the 
scaffold. 

“Yet,” said George in the low tone he had 
used since darkness set in, “ I cannot think, dear 
lady, but that you exaggerate the danger. Surely 
your story is, must be, as worthy of belief as 
your husband’s. Surely they will not condemn 
a woman for leaving such a man.” 

“They will condemn me for leaving France; 
for attempting to do so — they will overlook all 
else or will not consider it. And he, my husband 
— my husband! — is of their side. There is no 
hope. What has to be will be and must be 
borne. 

“ But,” she went on a moment later, “ it is not 
of that I think or care. Nay, rather, I can meet 
death without fear knowing that, thereby, I am 
free. But oh ! oh ! what of you ! To what have 
I brought you! Had I never appeared in the 
churchyard of Bricourt on that fateful day, you 
would have returned to your ship, you would 
have gone away safe — happy.” 

For answer, George turned his eyes to her 
while meeting her own as he did so and seeing 
how sadly they gazed at him beneath the stars 
now spangling the heavens ; then he said : “ If 

I could make you believe, if I could convey to 
you how little I consider any danger, any trou- 
ble, that may come to me, in comparison with 


HELVETIORUM FIDEI AC VIRTUTI 125 


the hopes I still have that all may yet be well 
with you, that you may yet lead a happier life, a 
life of freedom, it would make me regard my lot 
with indifference, no matter what that lot may 
be. Ah ! madame, if we had but escaped to- 
gether — if we should yet escape together, who 
knows what hap ” 

“Nay, nay,” said Lucienne, “let us not talk of 
that. We did not escape, we shall never escape ; 
I at least, shall not do so. And even if we were 
to do so, even if, free in your own land ” 

“Yes,” George whispered eagerly. “Yes, if 
we were free in my own land. What then? 
What! What!” 

But instead of any answer issuing from Luci- 
enne’s lips, there came an interruption, harsh, 
and, in the circumstances, terrible. The waggons 
had been halted suddenly at the top of a road 
bordered by woods at which they had all arrived 
together; a road, long and straight, and sur- 
rounded on either side by avenues of trees, at 
the further end of which there glistened innu- 
merable lights. And, once, it seemed to all as 
though afar off, a musket was discharged, and 
once, too, as though a volley had been fired. 

But this was not the interruption that dis- 
turbed George and Lucienne so much, but a 
nearer and more ominous one for them. A 
warder belonging to the waggon in front of 
theirs had commenced to call out a list of names 
from a paper he held in his hand, while another 


126 


THE YEAK ONE 


warder held a lanthorn close to the paper so that 
the first man might see the characters. And, 
even as the first fellow called his roll, he added 
to each person’s name another word. A word 
that sounded in one case like L’Abbaye, in an- 
other like the Conciergerie, or La Pitie, or Saint 
Lazare, or La Force. 

“ It is the name of the prison that each is to be 
sent to which he reads out last,” Lucienne whis- 
pered in George’s ear. “ Oh, God ! we shall be 
separated. We shall never meet again. And I 
shall never know whether I have sent you to 
your doom, or if you will go before or after me, 
or whether, as I pray to Him may be the case, 
you have escaped.” While, as she spoke, she fell 
almost fainting against his shoulder. 

“ Nay, nay,” he whispered, sheltering her with 
his arms even as he tried to soothe her with his 
words. “Nay, I beseech you, do not think of 
such things. We shall both escape — I know it, 
it is borne in on me — we shall not die but, in- 
stead, find our freedom together. And — and — 
we may be in the same prison — something may 
occur to aid us ” 

But his voice was drowned by the loud, sten- 
torian tones of one of the men in charge of the 
waggon in which they sat, who now mounted 
the steps while, as in the former case, another 
stood by his side holding a light for him to 
read by. 

“ Listen, all,” this man said, “ and pay atten- 


HELYETIOEUM FIDEI AC YIETUTI 127 


tion. Likewise, answer promptly to yonr names. 
Thereby shall you all get a lodging to-night and 
we shall be saved much trouble.” After which 
he called out from his list, “ Marie Bontems, 
Saint Lazare.” 

“ I am Marie Bontems,” quavered the old 
woman of the labouring classes who seemed by 
now to be more than half-dead with the fatigue 
of the journey. 

“ Eaoul Geneste, La Conciergerie.” 

“ Me void,” said the young aristocrat. “ It is 
not my proper name and title. But no matter.” 

“ Pauline Dubois, Port Libre,” the man went 
on. 

“ That is I,” whispered one of the shop girls. 

“ George — George — sacrebleu ! Hope — is it ? 
Luxembourg. Ha! yes, you are English. All 
the English are sent to the Luxembourg.” 

“ I am George Hope.” 

“ Hein ! but stop, the Luxembourg is full. 
The name is crossed out and La Force takes its 
place.” 

“ One is the same as another to me.” 

“ Bon — that is the way to regard things.” 
Then the man continued his reading. “ Lucienne 
Aubray, La Conciergerie,” he cried. 

“ Ah ! ” wailed Lucienne, “ we are parted. God 
help us ! ” 

“ Lucienne Aubray, La Conciergerie,” repeated 
the man fiercely, while glancing his eyes around 
those in the waggon. 


128 


THE YEAR ONE 


“ I am Lucienne d’Aubray.” 

“ There are no dds in France now.” Then he 
went on calling out more names until all had re- 
plied to them. 

“ Now,” he said, “ we will proceed to the end of 
the Champs Elysees. There your various prisons 
will be called out and you will be marshalled 
into groups. Forget not which you all belong to 

or it will be worse for Fichtre !” he broke 

off to mutter, “ why in the name of ten thousand 
fiends do they fire salutes ? We are not such a 
worthy pack, nor so uncommon a one either, as to 
require these civilities.” 

Yet his words were justified. One might well 
have supposed that volleys of salutes were being 
fired far down the long avenue. 

“Cheer up, cheer up,” whispered George to 
Lucienne, who now lay against his shoulder in 
an absolute abandonment of grief. “ Take heart. 
All will yet be well, please God. And, see, Paris 
cannot be so terrible. They are evidently en 
fete here. Beside the salutes, they illuminate 
the city.” And he diverted her attention to 
where, a mile or less off, the evening sky was 
brilliant with a crimson glow. A glow, that, as 
he spoke, became more and more dense ; one 
with which was mingled now some tongues of 
flame that appeared to be shooting up as though 
desirous of reaching and mixing with the red 
canopy above. 

“ I cannot be cheered,” Lucienne whispered in 


HELVETIORUM FIDEI AC VIRTUTI 129 

her turn. “ My heart is broken at last. Oh ! to 
think of you being a prisoner away from me. 
And I,” she said, as she had said before, “ with- 
out knowledge of your fate.” 

“ Our separation is the worst blow of all,” he 
replied. “The very worst. Together, in the 
same prison and with these cursed things off my 
wrists,” and he glanced down at the handcuffs of 
cord, “ something might be done, some attempt 
made at escape. But, apart, what can we do ? ” 
While they had been talking, the waggons — all 
together now and having the soldiers close in 
front of and behind them — had progressed slowly 
down the avenue, and, if one might judge by the 
muttered words of those who were in charge of 
the prisoners, something unusual was going on in 
and around Paris. 

“ Where are the crowds ? ” asked the stern 
warder (who had read out the list of names and 
prisons) of the kindly hearted one who had re- 
buked young de Geneste. “ There have gener- 
ally been large ones when we came before — 
many spectators. Mon amif he said to a man 
who at this moment passed him, a man whose 
face was shrouded by his cloak, “ what is to do 
in Paris ? Is it a fete ? ” 

“ A fete ! ” the stranger exclaimed, lowering 
his arm from across his face and, with it his 
cloak. “ Is it a fete ? ” Then he laughed a low, 
bitter laugh. “Ay, it is. Do you know who 
and what Les chevaliers du jpoignard are ? ” 


130 


THE YEAH ONE 


“ Why, yes,” the warder stammered, “ the — the 
followers of the Ki — of Capet.” 

“ ’Tis so. Do you also know who and what are 
les Suisses ? ” 

“ The guard constitutional of this same Capet. 
Naturally, I know that.” 

“Good. Well! ’tis the fete of those people. 
Continue your route and — you will see the fete” 
while, with a haggard scowl, the man slunk away 
behind the trees. 

“ Heugh ! ” said the good-natured warder, 
drawing a long breath. “ There is something 
strange happening, Dieu des Dieux what is that ? ” 

“The Tocsin,” replied the other. “From a 
dozen churches. What is it ? What does it 
mean ? ” 

But, now, the waggons, followed and preceded 
by the soldiers, had reached the foot of the 
Champs filys6es and were almost at the Place 
Louis XV., while all the prisoners they carried 
were in a state of intense excitement. 

It was natural that they should be so, since, at 
this time, men were rushing by in dozens, some 
groups were fighting with others, pistols were 
being discharged and swords brandished in the 
starlight as well as in another light caused by 
innumerable torches borne in the hands of fren- 
zied-looking men. While, to add to the horror 
of this night scene, the road was strewn with 
dead bodies that must have lain there for some 
hours. 


HELYETIOEUM FIDEI AC YIBTUTI 131 


“ What can it be ! ” cried George to Lncienne, 
while he struggled to wrench his wrists free of 
the handcuffs that gripped them. “ What ? 
Have the king’s troops triumphed over his 
enemies at last Is ” 

“I pray God,” whispered Lucienne, shudder- 
ing at what was going on around. 

“ ’Tis that,” cried Geneste, springing to his 
feet and waving his manacled hands in the air, 
fastened together though they were. “ ’Tis 
that. Vive le Roi ! Vive le Roi / ” he shouted 
in his excitement. 

Yet that cry only brought harm to him. A 
man running past the waggon — a man whose 
face was a mask of congealed blood — jumped up 
to the side of the vehicle and struck him in the 
face with his fist, while calling him “puant aris- 
tocrate .” A moment later the warder suddenly 
roared out an order for all jprevenus, male and 
female, to descend from the waggons to the road. 
And the next instant the soldiers of the eleventh 
battalion received an order to form round the 
three waggons in a ring. All recognised now, 
all understood, that something awful and desper- 
ate was happening. Who could have doubted it 
who saw what those poor creatures, huddled to- 
gether in the road now, saw as well as heard. 

Bands of men were, by this time, rushing past 
them followed by others in a military uniform, 
who either cut them k) pieces or were themselves 
cut to pieces as the former suddenly turned on 


132 


THE YEAK ONE 


their prisoners ; other bands were running by 
screaming out : “ Vivent les sans-culottes. A la 
lanterne ! a Vdbbaye avec les aristocrates. Tuez 
tons. Cassez. Brisez .” And sometimes, too, a 
bullet struck one of the wretched prisoners who 
had been transported so far, and brought him or 
her to the ground, while more than once a num- 
ber of infuriated demons, crimson with blood, 
would rush amongst the prisoners, yelling that 
they had already slain twenty or thirty aristo- 
crats that day, and would, while they so cried, 
cut a male or female prisoner to the earth. 

“This is our journey’s end,” Lucienne, who 
was half fainting, murmured to George, while 
he endeavoured to support her as well as his 
handcuffed wrists would let him. “ This is the 
end. Oh ! forgive me for what I have done, for- 
give me ere I die.” 

“ Forgive you ! Hay, I am proud and happy 
to die with you. Proud and happy to think 
that, to me, there fell the lot of endeavouring to 
save you. And happy, too, in knowing that we 
perish together. For, in truth, the end is at 
hand, though even now I know not what has 
happened.” 

It did indeed seem as though the end was very 
close. The mobs still ran and fought, and turned 
and ran and fought again, and now there was a 
melee going on all around the waggons and those 
poor prisoners trembling in the road ; now, too, 
the soldiers of the eleventh battalion were firing 


HELYETIORUM FIDEI AC VIRTUTI 133 


wildly, not knowing what they were doing. Then, 
suddenly, above all, was heard a cry muttered by 
hundreds of voices : “ voild les Suisses , mild ! 
nous sommes perdus ! ” 

After which it seemed as if all was over. For, 
out of the Place Louis XY., there came a body 
of men dressed in a handsome uniform, men who 
were fighting hard for their lives against some 
hundreds of sans-culottes, not men who, to judge 
by the cries of a moment earlier, were driving 
others before them. These were les Suisses, the 
king’s guards, and they were being overpowered 
and cut down with axes and reaping hooks and 
bill hooks, and pikes and scythes ; they were be- 
ing hacked to pieces even as they retreated to- 
wards the Champs Elysees. 

Yet, with death close upon them, round 
them — everywhere ! — they fought nobly and 
courageously and kept their faces ever turned 
towards the brutal, blood-drunken mob ; and so 
they backed and retreated until they came to 
where the waggons stood surrounded by the sol- 
diers and with the prisoners close by them in the 
road. 

Ah ! God, what a scene was that, what an 
awful spectacle for any onlooker to have ob- 
served from some coign of vantage. Those brave 
Suisses fell in dozens, in scores, close by the 
waggons, while knocking down some of the pris- 
oners in their fall and separating others as they 
did so, and while driving George forward with 


134 : 


THE YEAK ONE 


their sidelong rush so that he, though still a 
prisoner and grasped in the hands of one of the 
warders who was still alive, was parted from 
Lucienne. But still a prisoner and a manacled 
one; a prisoner separated from the woman he 
had sacrificed his existence to save. 

Separated from her, from Lucienne, who, in 
that common rush of victims and murderers, in 
that last ghastly onslaught had been thrust be- 
tween the wheels of the waggon and now lay 
senseless beneath it. And not only senseless — 
which was a mercy vouchsafed to her by heaven 
— but to all appearances dead. 


CHAPTER XII 


FAREWELL LUCIENNE d’AUBRAY 

Two hours had passed. It was now the dark- 
est period of the summer’s night, and over the 
spot where so much slaughter had taken place 
a short time before, silence, or something akin to 
silence, reigned. For whatever cruel carnage 
there was to be, whatever other slaughter and 
murder was to take place on that night of loath- 
some memory, it was not to be continued here at 
least, but in some other part of the city. So that 
although, occasionally, a pistol shot would still 
ring through the silence of the night, a shriek 
would sometimes be heard issuing from a side 
street or pealing down from the avenue above, or 
the clash of steel would disturb the air, here in 
this spot where Lucienne had fallen insensible 
and numerous others had fallen dead, all was as 
silent as the grave. 

Above, in the heavens, however, there was 
still the crimson glow which reflected the flames 
from the burning palace — the Tuileries ; near to 
the eastward of those flames there was another 
light, faint and indistinct and grey and cold ; a 
light which was as yet only a glimmer that told of 
135 


136 


THE YEAR ONE 


where, later, the sun would rise and cast its rays 
upon all that remained as evidence of the horrors 
of the night. But not for some hour or two yet 
were those horrors to be laid bare ; for the pres- 
ent they would remain shrouded in the darkness 
of the night. 

Amidst a heap of other forms, a heap composed 
of men and, in several cases, women — girls ! — 
whose eyes would never see that approaching 
dawn, Lucienne lay like one who was also dead. 
Yet, since, through her brain, strange fantasies 
were passing, and strange forms appearing, it may 
be gathered that she still lived and that neither 
stray bullet from soldier’s musket nor stab from 
assassin’s knife had deprived her of the life 
which she had for days past come to regard as 
forfeited. 

She lay there amidst that scene of bloodshed, 
and she dreamed of things that were as far from 
her surroundings as it was possible that any 
dreams could be, though, even thus, the figures 
haunting her brain would sometimes twist and 
turn themselves into the figures of others that 
were nearer and closer to her present day’s 
existence. The mailclad figure of the first 
of the d’Aubrays of whom record was known, 
the man who, side by side with Courtenai, had 
fought for the possession of the golden crown of 
Byzantium would appear, and in his place there 
came another. The Paladin whose picture had 
stood for centuries in the hall of their old chateau 


FAREWELL LUCIENNE D’AUBRAY 137 


of Bricourt would vanish, and a younger, fairer 
man than he, a man upon whose face the waves 
were dashing and in whose hair the brine was 
clinging, disappeared instead. In that dance of 
delirium in her brain, Ru d’Aubray— the grizzled, 
scarred warrior with, on his shoulder, the 
knightly cross and, in his hands, the great cross 
handled sword was gone, and George Hope had 
come instead. Yes ! he — the man who had told 
her that such was his name, the man whom she 
had seen fight the waves and the French sailors 
and, later, the French soldiers who captured 
them, as bravely as ever her Carlovingian ances- 
tors fought infidels and savages — had displaced 
the noblest of those ancestors. No wonder, 
therefore, that, as thus her sleep or her insensi- 
bility was haunted, his name should have risen 
to her cold, pale lips and that, from those 
lips, the word “ George ” should at last have 
escaped. 

Then she passed from out of her delirium and 
awoke. To what ? 

At first she did not know, and in her lack of 
recollection deemed that she was in the room she 
had occupied in the maison d' arret at Rennes, 
but, gradually, as, raising herself upon her el- 
bows, she looked around, memory came back to 
her and asserted its sway ; that which she saw, 
even in the shadows of the night, told all. For 
dark as was everything which encompassed her, 
there was still that weird and hateful glow in 


138 


THE YEAR ONE 


the heavens above ; there was still that gleaming 
which threw back a pale flame-coloured light to 
earth and so illumined every object near her 
with its blood-tinged veil. 

Letting her eyes roam over everything by 
which she was surrounded — seeing quite close to 
her a dozen men in that handsome uniform which 
she did not recognise, and some more in other 
uniforms, as well as several hideous looking men 
clad in rags — all dead ! — she sought for one form, 
the form of one man, and thanked God fervently 
a moment later that it was not there. Yet, even 
as she did so, she whispered to herself, “ Had 
he been here and slain, then, at least, I should 
have known it. Better so than to know that by 
now he may be dead elsewhere, or doomed to 
die. That he is still a prisoner.” 

Then, swiftly — as swiftly as the lightning 
rives the heavens — that word “ prisoner ” brought 
to her mind another thought ; the thought that 
she was free. Free ! she was free ! The waggons 
were all gone, so, too, were the warders and the 
soldiers of the eleventh battalion who were not 
slain — they had passed on and left her lying 
there for dead. She was free ! 

“ Ah, God ! ” she moaned, “ had we but been 
together, had he, too, been left behind here. We 
might have escaped from this town — from France. 
But I am free and he is still in their power. Of 
what use is freedom to me now ! ” 

“ Of what use,” she meditated, as she still sat 


FAKE WELL LUCIENNE D’AUBRAY 139 


there surrounded by the dead. Then, a moment 
later she whispered to herself the question : 
“Was that freedom of no use? Of no use! 
Surely, surely,” she thought. “ Ah ! ” she mut- 
tered hastily. “ Ah ! yes. Better one free than 
neither, better one outside and able to work for 
the other’s escape than for both to be prisoners. 
Better, far better. Yet what can I do? What?” 

She could not think, she could not divine, all 
distraught as she was ; yet, even to her racked 
mind, the knowledge was borne in that this free- 
dom which had come to her was a priceless thing, 
a thing that, in some manner might be turned to 
good account — for him. A thing so priceless 
that it should not be thrown away, but, instead, 
seized at once. Yes, at once, at once! “In an 
hour — in two hours,” she thought, as she re- 
garded the heavens, “ it will be daybreak. And 
with the day will come detection and recapture 
— the abandonment of all chance of saving him. 
I must away at once, ere it is too late.” 

Attempting to rise, her foot touched something 
soft, and, looking down, she saw that it was a 
woman’s hand, the hand of a dead woman who 
was lying upon her back with her arm stretched 
out. Then, as Lucienne bent over this woman to 
see if she were absolutely dead, she observed that 
she had been young and fair and, also, that she 
was one of the people and no prisoner belonging 
to one of the other waggons. Doubtless she had 
been amongst the crowd which had followed the 


140 


THE YEAR ONE 


murderers of les S uisses, perhaps she was the 
sweetheart of one of those murderers and, so, had 
kept near to him — to her own destruction. For 
that she was dead, not even Lucienne, hitherto 
unfamiliar with death as she had been, could 
doubt. Beneath the girl’s fair hair as it clustered 
over her brow was a horrid gaping wound where, 
doubtless, a bullet had entered ; the crimson glow 
from above showed that her lips were leaden 
coloured. And, also, she was cold. 

“ A woman of the people,” Lucienne muttered, 
observing the girl’s rough dress of Nimes serge, 
the red cap that lay by her head, and her coarse 
linen. “ A woman of the people. In that dress 
and with that cap upon her head she should have 
been safe from everything except that by which 
she met her death — an accident.” 

“ In that dress,” Lucienne found herself repeat- 
ing, “ and that cap. In those,” and then recog- 
nised what was passing in her mind. 

If she, too, had such a dress as that instead of 
the one she had worn for so long and was known 
by to so many — a dress fit for travelling, for es- 
caping from France, yet one of expensive quality 
— if she had that other’s dress might she not also 
be deemed one of the people, might she not go 
unrecognised and unsuspected ? With that dress 
and that cap of liberty ? Yet — time was going 
on ! The cold greyness of the East was quicken- 
ing into a warmer, softer glow, it was becoming 
of a primrose hue. If she were to possess herself 


FAREWELL LUCIENNE D’AUBRAY 141 


of that dress it must be done at once. Otherwise, 
it would be too late. 

Nerving herself to that which was horrible and 
repulsive, yet still an act of self-salvation, she un- 
laced the dead woman’s dress as swiftly as she 
could — thanking God meanwhile that it was a 
loose, coarsely made gown all in one piece ; and 
then, raising the body to a sitting posture, she 
drew it gently over the head, and, an instant 
afterwards, she had removed her own and put 
that upon the woman in the place of the other. 
After which, because of some strange feeling 
which possessed her that she must not deprive 
the dead of anything more than was absolutely 
necessary, Lucienne plunged her hand into the 
pockets. Yet there was nothing to restore be- 
yond a packet of assignats for small amounts, a 
small paper of coarse tobacco, purchased perhaps 
for that lover whom Lucienne had imagined to 
herself, and a bunch of keys. Well! insignifi- 
cant as these things were, she would restore 
them to the girl, they belonged to her, dead 
though she was ; she should be robbed of nothing 
but the dress for which Lucienne had exchanged 
her own. 

She proceeded therefore to place these things 
in the pocket of her own dress which was now 
upon the lifeless body of the other, and to thrust 
them deep into that pocket, meaning, the moment 
after she had done so, to steal away from this 
place of horror to some far removed spot. Yet 


142 


THE YEAR ONE 


as she began her task, as her hand entered the 
pocket, the back of it touched something soft and 
crumpled, something in her own dress which had 
lain forgotten or ignored ever since she put it 
there. 

“ Ah ! ” she exclaimed, “ ah ! That ! That ! 
I had indeed forgotten it.” 

Whereon, leaving the dead woman’s small be- 
longings behind, she drew out the object she had 
touched and looked at it while a thousand thoughts 
were rushing pell-mell through her mind. 

For the thing was a piece of crumpled paper. 
It was her Acte d' accusation which had been 
given her as she entered the court at Rennes, and 
which she had thrust contemptuously into her 
pocket after glancing at it. Her Acte d? accusa- 
tion which described her as the Citoyenne Luci- 
enne Aubray, ci-devant Marquise d’Aubray de 
Bricourt, charged with treason in the shape of 
attempted emigration and now summoned before 
the tribunal at Rennes so that it might be de- 
cided whether she should be forwarded to Paris 
for judgment by the high court or at once en- 
larged. 

“ And now it is here,” she thought ; “ here in 
my hand. And — ah ! God — if I place it there — 
there in that woman’s pocket, in the pocket of 
the dress she now has on, and she is searched — 
searched without being recognised by any one. 
If I do that — then — then — there is no Lucienne 
d’Aubray, no Marquise d’Aubray de Bricourt. 


FAEEWELL LUCIENNE D’AUBBAY 143 


She is dead; she will be dead and gone. An- 
other, and an unknown woman, will be left alive 
in her place to strive for the salvation, the free- 
dom of George Hope.” 

In a moment it was done ; the Acte d? accusa- 
tion of Lucienne, Marquise d’ Aubray de Bricourt 
— if ever found — would be found upon the per- 
son of the dead woman. Surely that should be 
enough. 

Whereon, leaving the poor creature lying there, 
Lucienne withdrew from the scene which had 
witnessed such horrors. Yet, ere she went, she 
nerved herself to do one more thing that sick- 
ened her and made her grow faint even as she 
went through with it. She carefully examined 
the face of every man lying dead upon the 
ground, and, as she gazed at the features of 
each, thanked God fervently that George Hope 
was not among them. 

****** 

An hour later and Lucienne sat on a bench on 
the other side of the Seine ; a spot to which she 
had wandered almost aimlessly after quitting the 
loathsome place where she had lain through a 
portion of the night. Here, at least, it seemed 
as though she had escaped from some of the hor- 
rors which had occurred across the river, since 
all was tranquil upon the quay, while — beyond 
the fact that firing was frequently to be heard ; 
that cries and shouts reached Lucienne’s ears 


144 


THE YEAR ONE 


as they were borne across the water, and, also, 
that still the palace burnt and the heavens were 
tinged with that hateful blood-red hue — none 
might have deemed that this night had wit- 
nessed a massacre that would be remembered 
in countless ages yet to come. 

She had not, however, reached the spot whereon 
she sat without some risk, nor without observing 
how necessary it was that she must be on her 
guard against arousing suspicions of being what 
she really was. As she drew near the Tuileries 
— not knowing their name, since she had never 
before been in Paris — she had overheard a whis- 
per pass from one man to another as both went 
by her ; a whisper which said : “ Est-elle aristo- 
crate f Observe, she has neither tricolour scarf 
nor red bonnet. Shall we turn and follow her ? ” 

“ Nay, nay,” the speaker’s companion replied. 
“We have other things to do. There is plunder 
to be had to-night and — and — diable ! we have 
slain enough. Now we will enrich ourselves. 
After all, gold is more useful than blood.” 

So they passed on, yet as they did so their 
words conveyed a warning to Lucienne. For 
she had forgotten to assume the cap of the dead 
woman ere she left her lying amidst all the 
others who had been slain by her side, while, as 
for the tricolour scarf, she was unacquainted 
with the fact that without such a thing she was 
open to grave suspicion. But, now, the words 
of those ruffians told her that she must at once 


FAKE WELL LUCIENNE D’AUBRAY 145 


possess herself of both scarf and cap if she would 
pass through the streets of Paris in safety; if 
she would be as she had said, that humble, lowly 
woman of the people who had arisen in the 
place of the late Marquise d’Aubray de Bricourt. 
While sharpened thus, Lucienne recognised that 
there were still other things which it was neces- 
sary for her to do. To wit, her hands were too 
white for the character she now meant to as- 
sume, since she had been enabled to wear gloves 
all through the long journey to Paris, while her 
hair, although long since deprived of any assist- 
ance from her maid, had still been dressed by 
her own hands into something resembling the 
fashion that prevailed among ladies of her class. 
And, she told herself, what had to be done must 
be done at once and before the daylight now 
close at hand should appear. 

Determined, therefore, to lose no time, Lu- 
cienne immediately set about altering her ap- 
pearance and, in a few moments, had made such 
changes in her hair as was necessary ; the locks 
which she wore brushed up over her head being 
smoothed out in the basin of a fountain that she 
passed, and then the hair coiled up into a great 
loop behind. As for her hands, that was soon 
arranged. After washing them in the same 
basin, so that they might at least be free from 
the blood with which they had become stained 
as she touched the dead woman’s head— a sight 
that had made her shudder more than once when 


146 


THE YEAE ONE 


she glanced down — she at once proceeded to soil 
them again by rubbing them in the earth at her 
feet, and taking care that the dust and dirt should 
be well worked into and around her nails. 

“ And now,” she said to herself, with always 
one thought in her mind — the thought of George 
Hope and how she could find out where he had 
been taken to, and, thereby, if it were possible, 
to save him; “now, there remains nothing but 
the red cap and the scarf, and I can begin my 
task. The task of striving to do for him that 
which he endeavoured to do for me ; of striving 
to save him or of dying in the attempt.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT 

Leaving the neighbourhood of the fountain 
after she had used it for the purpose described, 
Lucienne wandered on aimlessly, as has been 
said, not knowing whither she was going nor in 
what direction her steps were leading her. For, 
since Paris was utterly unknown to her, every 
place seemed alike as well as strange, though, 
even so, it appeared to her that across the river 
which she could now observe on her right hand, 
was another portion of the city more calm and 
undisturbed than any other she had yet passed 
through. Yet, at present, no possibility of her 
reaching that other side presented itself to Lu- 
cienne, no bridge loomed up before her nor were 
any boats visible, while, more than once, small 
mobs had passed her, howling, gesticulating and 
cursing as well as assaulting solitary passers-by 
who endeavoured to avoid them, and — once — 
seizing upon her. 

“ Who are you, what are you ? ” cried a man 
who, accompanied by two others, sprang out 
from one of those mobs and seized her by the 
wrists. “ What are you ? Say ! You have 
147 


148 


THE YEAR ONE 


neither echarpe nor bonnet rouge. Are you an 
accursed aristocrat ? ” 

“ An aristocrat ! ” exclaimed Lucienne with a 
laugh — although one which she feared would be- 
tray her, so nervous was she. For she was hor- 
ribly afraid that, already, her newly-found free- 
dom was gone ; that once more she would be a 
prisoner. “ Yet,” she told herself, while the men 
stood regarding her, “ if I would keep my free- 
dom both now and henceforth; if I would be 
free to help and work for him, nervousness, fear 
— ay ! even womanly self respect — must vanish. 
I must be a woman of the mob, a female sans- 
culotte. Heaven give me strength to be so.” 

Therefore, deciding thus promptly and in an 
instant, and determining that so far as lay in her 
power she would act the part which she recog- 
nised as necessary, she repeated, “An aristo- 
crat ! ” while again she laughed — this time in a 
louder, bolder, and, if possible to her, coarser 
way. 

“ What are you, then ? ” the fellow said. “ And 
where is your cap and scarf? Hein? pretty 
wench — for pretty you are.” 

“My cap and scarf,” cried Lucienne mock- 
ingly, “ my cap and scarf ! Where are they ! 
Why ! where should they be ? The cap knocked 
off by the soldiers we were slaying — the soldiers 
my Jules was helping to slay — the scarf torn off 
my back. And I have no money to buy more.” 

“ No money ! ” cried the fellow laughing, and, 


THE SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT 149 


then, in a moment, and with incredible swiftness, 
he had plunged his hand into her pocket, while 
crying, “ I’ll be sworn you have enough to buy 
Jules a pigeolet. Is it not so, mignonne? Ha ! 
what is this ? ” 

For his hand had lit on the packet of coarse 
tobacco and the keys of the dead woman, which 
Lucienne — thinking that they would be a strange 
accompaniment to the Acte d' accusation of a 
ci-devant marquise if found upon the body — an 
accompaniment that might arouse suspicions — 
had retaken at the last moment and had placed 
in the pocket of the dress she now wore. Yet, 
even as she laughed shrilly at the fellow’s act 
and cried, “Oh! do not take that. Do not. 
Do not. ’Tis for Jules when I find him,” she 
felt that was she trembling at a thought which 
rose to her mind, at the memory of what she 
had escaped. She thought of what peril she 
would have stood in at this moment, if, instead 
of this paltry discovery, the man had found in 
her pocket that very Acte d? accusation which she 
had discarded ! 

“ For Jules, eh?” the man cried now, “ Jules 
who has helped to slay les Suisses. Bien ! we 
will not deprive a brave man of his comforts. 
Keep it for Jules.” Then, beneath the light of 
a lantern hanging in the street, he read the name 
of the tobacconist imprinted on the paper, 
“Niery, Rue Jacques,” and said, “So pretty 
one, you are in our section.” 


150 


THE YEAR ONE 


“ Yes. If that is yours.” 

“So — so. Bon. Pass on citoyenne, and if 
Jules should — well ! not come back and you 
want a sweetheart in his place, ask for me, for 
Pierre Legros. You are pretty; we should suit 
each other. Adieu , cherie” 

“And the scarf and cap,” said Lucienne, as the 
man and his companions moved off. “ What of 
them ? Am I to be stopped again by some brave 
men who are not half so kind nor handsome as 
you ? I shall never get home to my poor old 
mother if I am. Give me yours, mon gaillard .” 

“ Fichtre for you women ! you are all alike ; 
always wanting something from us. And — and 
— women are my weakness, especially when as 
good-looking as you. Here, take mine,” and he 
clapped his red cap upon her fair hair and placed 
his scarf over her shoulders. “ They know me, I 
can do without them — till I take some one else’s. 
But I must have a kiss in return,” and he 
stretched out his arms. 

“ What ! ” cried Lucienne. “ What ! And rob 
Jules! Never. Good-night, bonhomme ,” while 
with another merry laugh — God knows it tore 
her heart to utter it ! — she evaded his intended 
grasp and ran away. 

Then, sick with grief and with her whole soul 
in revolt as well as full of despair, she went on, 
not knowing where she was going to nor what 
might happen next, but still hoping that, with 
every step she took, she might be drawing near 


THE SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT 151 


to some chance which would help her towards 
assisting the man who had lost himself for her. 
Determinate, resolute, she went on, while vowing 
inwardly that no matter what horrors might 
come across her path, what further loathsome 
familiarities she might have to submit to, nor 
what atrocious creatures she might have to herd 
with, she would still suffer all. For him, for 
that hero, that brave man, who was suffering 
now for her. 

Terrible sights, strange sights, too, continued 
to meet her eyes as she went on and, unknow- 
ingly, drew near to that bridge which is so old 
yet is known as the Pont Neuf. She saw a 
woman, young as herself, one who was adorned 
with the red cap and tricolour scarf, fleeing past 
her shrieking, “ Vivent les sans-eulottes ! illu- 
minez , cassez les vitres ! ” yet one who was, never- 
theless, pursued by half a dozen men armed with 
pikes and axes, who cried, “ With it all she is 
an aristocrat. We know her. She is the Com- 
tesse Dufresnoy. We will slay her as we have 
slain a hundred to-day. She cannot deceive us 
with her false cries.” And one of the men 
added, “I was her servant once. I ought to 
know her.” Then, a moment or so later, Luci- 
enne’s ears were horrified by an awful piercing 
shriek, followed by a call to God for help and 
the sound of groans and a hoarse voice which 
cried, “ Voila, destfini. C’est une de plus” 

Trembling all over, shaking in every limb, 


152 


THE YEAE ONE 


Lucienne went on, and again she witnessed 
strange sights. She saw a man and a woman 
pass her — and surely they were aristocrats, she 
thought, if one might judge by their tones while 
disregarding at the same time the coarse clothes 
which they had doubtless assumed for a purpose 
— and she saw that they were being followed, 
tracked, by a band of men and women. Yet 
they, it seemed, knew how to save themselves, 
how to throw dust in the eyes of those sleuth- 
hounds behind, since, as they drew near the 
north wall of the burning palace, they resorted 
to a strange artifice. There was one of the 
ci-devant royal coaches standing there unhorsed 
— a coach which had been rifled of its cushions 
and hangings and cloths and had had all its win- 
dows broken, while, over the spot where the 
royal arms had been, pieces of dirty paper were 
now pasted, papers on which were proclama- 
tions ; and on arriving at this coach those un- 
doubted aristocrats who knew that they were 
being followed performed that artifice. The 
woman struck at the great yellow and red coach 
with her hand while crying, “ A las les tyrans ” 
while the man drew his sword and thrust it 
through the panel and spat into the interior. 

To such a state of fear had that night’s out- 
break reduced many a noble gentleman and lady 
and made cowards of those, who, in more ordi- 
nary circumstances, would have shed their last 
drop of blood for their king and his throne ! In 


THE SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT 153 


truth, that night of outrage and murder was a 
fitting advance-guard to the New Year that was, 
a month later, to be born and created — The Year 
One. 1 

A little later Lucienne saw near her the Pont 
Neuf bathed in the roseate hue of the flames 
from the king’s palace, and she resolved to cross 
the bridge and reach that other side which 
looked not only so dark and deserted, but so calm. 

And now, as she sat upon the bench which she 
had traversed, she mused and meditated upon 
what she should do next. In all Paris she had 
no friend, so far as she could recollect, who 
would be in a position to assist her, since of all 
those whom she knew belonging to Brittany, 
every one was, like herself, of the noblesse , and 
all had emigrated who could do so, or, remain- 
ing, had sworn to bring about a counter revolu- 
tion — the counter revolution which a year later 
came to be known as the War of La Yendee. 

She could not recall one person who might be 
in Paris and able to assist her, though she 
thought that she had heard how some of the 
Lescures and de la Rochejaqueleins w T ere here — 
yet of what avail could they be to her ! For she 
did not even know where their great Paris hotels 
might be situated — know ! — why she did not even 
know where the street was situated in which was 
the old Paris hotel of her own family, the d’Au- 

1 This year commenced at midnight on the 21st September, 
1792. 


154 


THE YEAR ONE 


brays’, though she remembered its name — La Rue 
de Bretagne. Her father had not been in Paris 
for years, while, hitherto, she, herself had never 
been at all — and her miserable husband, when he 
visited the capital alone, had generally stayed in 
a street of far different reputation from any in the 
Quartier St. Germain and, in his horribly ignoble 
spleen, had been in the habit of insulting her by 
afterwards narrating the loathsome life he had 
been indulging in during his absence. Nor, even 
had things been different, had she been merely a 
woman of rank who happened to find herself in 
Paris on such a night of horror as that which 
was now passing away, instead of an ex-prisoner, 
a p revenue , would it have been wise for her to 
go to that old house of her family, the house be- 
longing now to the man from whom she had fled 
— to her husband. The Paris hotel of an aristo- 
crat would, it seemed, be the last place where an 
aristocrat should venture to appear at this time. 

“ Therefore,” she thought, “ I am alone. There 
is no living soul to whom I can go — to whom I 
can appeal for advice. Not one. What shall I 
do, how shall I commence the task to which I 
have vowed myself — the task of saving him. 
I do not even know as yet whether he had been 
taken to La Force — which was the name of the 
prison that warder read out ; I do not even know 
if he has reached it or whether, God help him ! — 
he has not been slain on his road there.” 

As she uttered these words she became over- 


THE SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT 155 


mastered, not only with her fears for the safety, 
the very existence, of that man, but also with all 
that she had gone through, with all she had suf- 
fered of late, capped by the horrors she had been 
witness of during the past night. The night 
which had now departed, the night whose dusky 
veil — blood-tinged — was gone, giving place to a 
pure, bright day. For, from the heavens, the 
morning sun was now streaming down upon 
Paris and all within it — upon the river on whose 
breast more than one dead body was floating; 
upon that scene of carnage across the river where 
so much murder had been done ; upon the prison 
to which an innocent though weak king had, with 
his family, been led shuddering, while five thou- 
sand of his subjects lay dead in the streets and 
open places. 

Overcome, overmastered at last by her emo- 
tions, by her misery, Lucienne wept unrestrain- 
edly now as she sat alone upon that bench on the 
quay. And if, as may well be, our grief passes 
away with the bitter tears we shed in our dark- 
est hours of despair, then such was the case now 
with this fair, yet distraught woman — this woman 
who, even now, had not long left her girlhood 
behind her and stepped across the dividing line 
between that and maturity. Yet, as she wept in 
her abandonment and misery, there came to her 
another consolation sweeter and more comforting 
than even tears. For, as she wept, so, also, she 
prayed — prayed that the dark horror which had 


156 


THE YEAE ONE 


been gradually engulfing her country for three 
years might be rent asunder by God in Ilis 
own time, and that, to all who now bowed be- 
neath the chastisement of His hand, peace might 
be at last restored. Also, she prayed for one 
man and his earthly salvation; for the brave, 
resolute sailor who, coming suddenly into her 
life, had fought and striven to save her, even as 
of old, one of her own knightly ancestors would 
have fought and striven for some helpless woman 
who besought his aid. 

So, at last, there was peace within her breast, 
or if not peace, at least resignation ; and with 
that resignation the deeper and deeper growing 
determination to never falter in what she had 
begun, to — so long as life should last — and heaven 
alone knew how long that life would be ! — con- 
tinue her appointed task. 

“ I will find him,” she cried. “ With God’s aid 
I will save him. And if that can never be, then 
I will die with him. If he is in that prison of 
which the man spoke, or in any other, and I can- 
not contrive his escape, then, no matter how loath- 
some, how appalling the place may be, I will 
share it with him. I am that most accursed thing 
in all France to-day — an aristocrat : let me but 
proclaim this outside the walls that encompass 
him and, a moment later, I, too, shall be within 
them. And,” she continued to herself, as now she 
sprang to her feet, “after that the end for both 
of us.” 


THE SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT 157 


Whereon, with her determination taken, to, 
first of all, exert every power she possessed and 
all means she could contrive to save George Hope 
— means which she would have to procure under 
the garb of a woman of the people, of the Revo- 
lution — and, secondly, if this failed, to die with 
him — she passed along the quay. 

Along the quay and back across the bridge to 
where the partly burnt palace still smouldered 
beneath the rays of the early sun ; back to where 
soldiers and guards and members of the noblesse 
lay thick as autumn leaves, with that sun stream- 
ing into their sightless eyes. Back, and with one 
more glance, in what was now broad daylight, to 
make sure that he, her hero, was not one of those 
dead men, and thanking heaven fervently again 
and again that there was no sign of him. Back 
to the crowds composed of drunken, maddened 
men and of women who, ere long would be the 
furies — les vengeresses , lest ricoteurses — of the most 
wicked and most bloodthirsty revolution that has 
ever disgraced humanity. Back to, if it so pleased 
God, become one of them to all outward seeming 
and thus save George Hope, or, in her own proper, 
undisguised character, to share his fate — a fate 
brought upon him by her. 


CHAPTER X1Y 

THE GENERAL FEAR 


“ Toute la Revolution se peut conjuguer ainsi: J' ai peur, tu as 
peur , il apeur , nous avons peur, vous avez peur, ils out peur . ' 1 

— Joseph Michaud. 

Lucienne was now back in the streets on the 
other side of the Seine — those streets whose names 
were changing and passing away, even as every- 
thing that was old and had once been respected, 
was passing away in France. 

She had returned, shuddering, horrified at all 
that she saw beneath the bright sun and, travers- 
ing the gardens of the Tuileries had reached the 
Rue St. Honore — six weeks later to be known as 
the Rue Honore, the transformation taking place 
in company with a hundred other streets and 
places which were to be shorn of their Saints and 
De's. She turned down this, therefore, while 
feeling that, ere she could do more or proceed 
further, she must obtain some nourishment. For, 
although she scarcely felt hunger, her thirst was 
very great, and she knew that if she did not re- 
fresh herself soon there would be no strength 
whatever left in her. 

Continuing on her way, while searching for 
some place where she might obtain sustenance, 
however simple, and noticing that hardly any 
158 


THE GENERAL FEAR 


159 


shop was open as yet, she came at last to one 
having inscribed over it “ Agathe V£rac, Limon- 
adiere et Fruitiere,” and observed that a comely- 
looking woman, though one whose pleasant face 
appeared strangely blanched, was finishing the 
taking down of the shutters. A woman who, 
while she did so, gave nervous glances to the 
right and left and over her shoulders, as though 
fearful of something terrible that might suddenly 
spring at her, as well as of one or two rough- 
looking men who were lurking about at the cor- 
ners of side streets and the entrances to various 
alleys. 

“ Citoyenne,” Lucienne said gently, “ I am 
very thirsty this morning ; will you let me have 
something wherewith to quench that thirst ? ” 

For a moment the woman looked at her, while 
observing the scarf and cap she wore; indeed, 
looked at her with a very perceptible increase of 
that terrified glance which Lucienne had already 
observed — doubtless she deemed the latter one of 
the furies who had been let loose during the 
past night ! — while upon her face there came the 
sign of a determination to refuse the request, a 
sign expressed by the hardening of her features. 
Then, suddenly, something, some womanly intui- 
tion, seemed to counteract that determination 
and, in almost a whisper, she said, “Come in. 
Come in.” 

Following this woman Lucienne did enter the 
shop, while the former busied herself in pouring 


160 


THE YEAR ONE 


out some lemonade from a large caraffe and 
placing it, with some brioches and a bunch of 
grapes, before her. After which, and while 
Lucienne was drinking the welcome beverage, the 
other bent over her counter and said in a low 
tone — though not before she had cast careful 
glances across, as well as up and down, the 
street : 

“ Madame’s disguise is excellent — in part. 
Yet — yet — if I might counsel her ! Her face — 
the shape of her hands — the lack of any signs of 
hard work — betray her. I would suggest she 
should at least stain her face ” 

“ Is it so perceptible ? ” Lucienne stammered, 
paling a little, while she recognised a moment 
later that here was one who was no revolutionist, 
one who would not denounce her. “You deem 
that I am — a ” 

“ I know it. But that does not matter. The 
fear is that others should know it too.” 

“ What shall I do ? ” 

“Do! — why Nay,” she broke off, “do 

nothing for the present except turn your back to 
the window so that none shall see your face. 
Three or four of those men in the street are com- 
ing this way. You have aroused their curiosity, 
perhaps their suspicions. Yet do not fear, I can 
make it right, I hope. Take your cue from me, 
madame. And — and — slip off your wedding 
ring.” As she spoke, she suddenly turned round 
to the shelves at her back and dragged out a 


THE GENERAL FEAR 


161 


great jar of wine and rapidly filled two glasses 
while removing at the same time the lemonade. 
Then, even as she did this, two repellent looking 
men, on one of whose forehead was a smear of 
blood, while the other bore marks of the same 
thing on his clothes, drew near and glanced into 
the window. 

“ And so, Margot, ma petite” the woman 
named Agathe Verac said now, in loud, clear 
tones, “and so you have reached Paris at last 
and are come to help your poor old aunt at her 
business. Well ! you arrive at the right moment 
— to see the downfall of a tyrant. Fichtre ! 
Capet and all his brood are doomed. Come, an- 
other cup to our brave comrades of the nation. 
Down with it,” and she bent forward and clinked 
her glass against Lucienne’s, while motioning to 
her with her eyes to drink without hesitation. 

“ Bon ! Bon ! ma petite niece” she cried, pour- 
ing out more wine. “ Bon, mon enfant. Now, 
see ! we will make you drink so many toasts to 
the nation ere you have been here a week that 
we will ruin that peach-skin of a complexion 
which you have brought from the country. 
Which,” she added, “will be a good thing. You 
will have to work hard here, and we want no 
namby-pamby looking aristocratic faces in Paris. 
That will never do for us. Drink, therefore, 
child, drink. A la sante de la Nation .” 

“Citoyenne,” said one of the men outside, 
while thrusting his head in at the open door, “ if 


162 


THE YEAR OHE 


there is so much liqueur going we could drink a 
toast or two ourselves,” while as he spoke he 
strode into the shop and took up a glass. 
“ Come,” he went on, “ don’t be niggardly. Pour 
out and let us have a drain together.” 

“Good,” said Agathe Yerac, while she held 
the wine jar half turned down in her hand. 
“ Good, you shall have a drink. Yet only for 
one consideration, which is that you drink to the 
downfall of the tyrant! Hot otherwise. Ho 
toast no drink.” 

“ The downfall of the tyrant ! ” cried the man. 
“ Why ! ventrdboumine ! what have I been work- 
ing for all night ? What have I been slaying 
les Suisses and the aristocrats for ? Hein ? Ho 
— he ! Give me and Gilles the drink.” Whereon 
he seized the jar and poured out a glassful for 
himself and drank the toast, and then filled an- 
other for his comrade, who imitated him. 

“ While, as for you, ma belle” he said looking 
at Lucienne, who still kept her face turned as 
much away from him as possible, “ do what your 
good aunt tells you. Drink plenty, work hard 
and, above all, get rid of that rose-and-milk com- 
plexion. Otherwise you will one day be taken 
for a vile aristocrat and then — well ! the aristo- 
crat’s friend, the devil, won’t be able to save 
you.” 

After which both the men strode out of the 
shop, the second one giving Agathe Yerac a piece 
of advice at parting. 















































































































THE GENERAL FEAR 


163 


“ Citoyenne,” he said, “ if you are wise you will 
put up the shutters again for to-day. We mean to 
make a fete in honour of the great deeds of last 
night: those who keep their shops open and 
work to-day will not be considered as good citi- 
zens. Shut up the business and take your niece 
out to see the sights. There are some brave 
ones, I swear ! ” 

One part of the ruffian’s advice was followed 
by the good woman ; she did close the shop for 
the day, a thing which Lucienne offered to assist 
her in doing, but which she would not hear of. 
The other part, that of going out to see the 
“ sights ” was not indulged in, but, instead, the 
two women retired into a back room together, 
Lucienne doing so without experiencing the 
slightest compunction in trusting herself in this 
woman’s hands after the manner in which she 
had been assisted by her. For she knew, she 
felt sure, that here, in this humble though quick- 
witted shopkeeper, Providence had provided her 
with a friend, an auxiliary who might be, and 
seemed as though she was very willing to be, of 
vast service to her. Nor did she hesitate to tell 
Madame Yerac so as they sat in the back room 
together, while now the woman forced her to 
partake of a substantial meal and promised her a 
good bed and rest later; indeed, she not only 
told her so but blessed and thanked her over and 
over again. 

“I see now that but for you,” she said, “I 


164 


THE YEAR OJSTE 


should not have deceived these monsters for 
many days. Oh ! thank God, thank God, that 
He directed my steps towards your house.” 

“I thank God, too,” said Madame Verac with 
solemnity. “ Indeed, I do, for I assure you, ma- 
dame, that in spite of your cap and scarf, as well 
as that coarse dress which is not truly yours, you 
would not have deceived many of them for long. 
Alas ! They can scent out an aristocrat as easily 
as a dog in Perigord can scent out a truffle, and, 
if not the men, then their women can do so.” 

“ Your sentiments are not with the — the ” 

“ The murderers of last night ! The assassins 
of the Swiss Guard and the nobility. Ah ! God 
forbid. Madame, I was nurse in the house of the 
De Rochefeuilles for five-and-thirty years, and 
maid, too, to Madame la Duchesse de Roche- 
feuille who is now a prisoner in La Force.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed Lucienne, while her heart 
seemed to thump against her breast at the last 
name. “ At La Force ! My God ! At — La 
Force.” 

“ Madame,” the other said, observing her emo- 
tion as none could have failed to do. “ Madame, 
what is it ; what have you to do with that prison ? 
Tell me, confide in me. You may do so. And 
perhaps, if any one who is dear to you is there — 
your husband may be, since you wear a wedding 
ring — I might be of assistance to you. I am al- 
lowed to see my old mistress sometimes and to 
take her little delicacies and occasionally to wash 


THE GENERAL FEAR 


165 


her linen — such as she has. Heaven knows it is 
not much, since the packets which are permitted 
in the prisons are very small. Tell me, madame, 
but speak low. Yerylow. We are afraid of our 
own walls now — none know where a spy may 
have hidden himself.” 

Half an hour later Lucienne had told Madame 
Yerac all, or very nearly all, of her story ; one 
part alone being glossed over through her 
womanly sensitiveness, perhaps her womanly 
shame. She did not tell her newly-found friend 
of the state of things which existed between her 
husband and Adele Satigny and had existed long 
prior to his marriage. She could not speak of 
that to one who was still a stranger, nor dilate 
on an infidelity which had caused her to feel 
herself a degraded, insulted woman whenever 
she allowed her mind to dwell upon the subject. 
Instead, therefore, she simply said that he was 
cruel and insulting to her, while taunting her 
with the manner in which she had had to humble 
her pride of race in becoming the wife of one 
who was the son of such a man as his father had 
been, and she also stated that his adoption of the 
new order of things in France, and his rabid 
hatred of the monarchy and aristocracy, had been 
the culminating point which drove her to en- 
deavour to quit France. 

“ And so,” exclaimed Madame Yerac when the 
narrative was concluded, while still she spoke in 
whispers and with always upon her that terror 


166 


THE YEAE ONE 


which was now over all in France who did not 
welcome the Eevolution — a terror of which it 
has been said that it caused people to be afraid 
to speak to each other in the streets, to be alone 
in their own rooms, or to converse above their 
breath ; “ and so you are the last of the d’Au- 
brays. Ah ! what a noble family — what legends 
are told of them. ’Tis indeed a mercy you have 
escaped out of the hands of the Jacobins.” 

“ Yet now,” said Lucienne, with a pale ghost 
of a smile, such a smile as might well have 
brought the tears into the eyes of any who saw 
it, “ now, do you know what I desire most of all 
to do ? ” 

“What?” exclaimed Madame Verac, speak- 
ing, as before, in a whisper, yet a whisper which 
had in its tones some expression that denoted 
lurking fear and dread. “ What ? For the love 
of God, madame, do not desire, do not endeavour 
to do anything rash. Anything,” she added, 
while sinking her voice still lower, if such were 
possible — “ that may lead to — to ” 

“ I know what you would say. Yet, listen, I 
beseech you. Ah! listen. You spoke of me 
this morning to those hateful men, those ruffians 
stained, as I could see, with the blood of their 
overnight victims, as — as your niece, Margot, 
fresh from the country ! Ah ! my friend, my 
friend, I must in truth be that niece if you 
will but let me. I must — I must — get admission 
to ” 


THE GENERAL FEAR 167 

“ Where ! ” the elder woman exclaimed, her 
face white — her lips trembling — now. 

“ To — ” and Lucienne’s own voice sank to its 
lowest depths — “ to La Force. Oh ! I must. I 
must. Think of what he did for me. Think 
how he risked his life, his freedom, everything, 
for me ; think of how safe he was in that ship of 
his, and surely there is no safer place in all the 
world, no greater place of security for an Eng- 
lishman, than in an English ship of war — and, 
oh ! think of him now ! God ! I must find him — 
see him — save him, if I can — or die with him.” 

“ It is impossible,” the other said. “ Impossi- 
ble. You might get in, it is true, and die with 
him, but, as for the rest, it could never be.” 

“ It could be and it shall be. Remember, I am 
your niece, the niece of the old servant of 
Madame la Duchesse de Rochefeuille, of the 
woman who sometimes takes her little delicacies, 
who fetches away her linen and takes it back to 
her. Remember that I beseech you : on my 
knees I implore you to remember that. And, 
one day, you might be ill, your niece would go in 
your stead. With my face stained, my hands 
made coarser — even my hair dyed or darkened — 
none could discover me. And — and — ah ! I 
might see him — at least I should see the prison — 
I might observe something ” 

“Stay. Stay, madame,” said Agathe Yerac. 
“Stay. Let me think,” while acting on her 
words she did think for some moments, during 


168 


THE YEAR ONE 


which Lucienne kept silence. Then, at last, she 
spoke again, still in a whisper. 

“But yesterday I conveyed a message to the 

Duchesse from a friend outside ” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed Lucienne, pressing both her 
hands to her heart as though to still its bursting. 
“ Ah ! A message ! Can that be done ? ” 

“ In three little strips of paper rolled up,” 
went on Agathe, “ and each one placed in a hole 
bored through some sticks of cold asparagus 
which I had cooked for her. Yet I could not do 
that again — they would suspect. Everything is 

scrutinised so carefully by the concierge ” 

“ But there are a thousand other ways,” said 
Lucienne, “ that we might devise. And — and — 
the Duchesse would perhaps communicate with 
him. Oh ! ” she gasped, “ help me. Help me. 
By to-morrow I will think of a dozen methods of 
sending a message first, and then of obtaining 
admission myself.” 

“ It will not be easy ; these chances do not 
come often. And the concierges are getting cun- 
ning since they have found out so many ruses of 
the outside world for communicating with those 
in the prisons. They know now that the paper 
which wraps up eggs, or butter or cheese, or a 
bunch of grapes has sometimes one letter scrib- 
bled on it in pencil, or that each piece has a letter 
which, when all are put together, help to form a 

word Ah ! ” she broke off to exclaim, while 

as she did so a harsh voice was heard bawling in 


THE GENERAL FEAR 


169 


the street outside. “ Ah ! there is the colporteur 
with the journals,” while, thrusting her hand 
into her pocket, she brought out some sols and 
then went to the shop door and opened it. 

“ Now,” she said, “ we shall hear something of 
last night’s doings. At present, I know little 
more than you have told me. Yet I can under- 
stand.” 

Then, as the door was opened by her, the 
man’s voice was heard plainly crying out : 
“ Le Courrier , Le Moniteur , Le Thermometre 
du Jour , La Chronique de Paris. All the 
news. Treachery of the Swiss Guards against 
the nation. Duplicity of Louis. Louis sent to 
the temple. End of the Capets. The nation 
triumphant. Vive la Nation! Deux sols le 
numero. Le Courrier , Le Moniteur etc., etc., 
etc. 


CHAPTER XV 

MAEGOT VEEAC 

That was how the journals of the eleventh of 
August described the awful massacres of the pre- 
ceding night ; that was how L’Ami du Peuple, 
among others — the organ of the execrable, blood- 
thirsty Marat, the foul wretch whose gangrened 
and ulcerated heart was as full of blood-lust as 
were those of Robespierre and Danton — described 
the gallant attempt of les Suisses and many fol- 
lowers of the monarchy to save their master and 
his family. Thus, too, was the downfall of Louis 
and his family spoken of, not only by one or two 
or three newspapers that afternoon, but by al- 
most every one which was published. For those 
journals which espoused the royalist cause had 
all, or nearly all, ceased to appear or, when ap- 
pearing, failed to say a word upon the subject. 

And, over the ill printed, sometimes almost 
illegible, and always inaccurate and purposely 
perverted sheets — especially the purposely per- 
verted sheets which appeared on the eleventh of 
August — hundreds of people were poring now in 
all parts of Paris, as those two women were 
poring over them at this moment in the back 
170 


MAEGOT VfcRAC 


171 


parlour of Agathe Yerac’s shop. People who, in 
some cases, were creeping about the city disguised 
as workmen, boatmen, shopmen, clerks and 
porters, yet in whose veins ran the oldest and 
noblest blood of France ; people whose long roll 
of names and titles it would have taken the whole 
page of a small book to contain. People, too, 
who were hiding in garrets in the neighbourhood 
of Antoine, late St. Antoine, while, in what was 
the old St. Germain quarter, their stately man- 
sions and hotels were deserted. But before that 
happened care had been taken to erase from their 
clock faces the name of “ Le Pante, horloger du 
Roi” — who made most of the clocks for the 
aristocracy — or to, at least, cause a piece of paper 
to be pasted over the last two words. People, 
too, who had destroyed, or buried, ere they left 
their homes, every piece of furniture, every book, 
or ornament, or nicknack bearing upon it those 
three fleur de Us which, but a few months, but a 
year or so ago, had been the universal emblem in 
France. For, should such tokens of royalist tend- 
encies be found in those homes during the 
owner’s absence, and should such owners ever 
fall into the hands of the revolutionary tribunal, 
those tokens would alone be sufficient to send 
them to the scaffold without any further so- 
called evidence of loyalty being forthcoming. 
Yet, such a state of affairs was not surprising at 
a time when a youth could actually be executed 
on an Acte d? accusation which stated that he was 


172 


THE YEAK ONE 


soujpQonne d'etre suspect ! because he was the son 
of his father who was a nobleman, and when a 
little child, Mademoiselle de Chabannes was de- 
tained in prison because, a year or so before, she 
had been seen to derive nourishment from the 
breast of her aristocratic mother ! Nor, to give 
one more instance out of hundreds, were such 
things surprising, when a young man of twenty- 
three who had but recently left his Lycee could 
be executed on the charge of being the father of 
an officer who had fought against the nation and 
then emigrated ! 

That both Lucienne and her newly-found 
friend should devour those sheets called “ news- 
papers,” which the latter had bought, can be 
understood, as well as can be understood the 
eagerness with which Lucienne looked for some 
description of the awful scene around the wag- 
gons in which she had taken part. She looked, 
indeed, with all her heart in her eyes for 
some word, some sign, of where he, that brave 
hero of hers had been taken to — if he was not 
dead. 

Yet she found nothing — nothing in either 
Moniteur , Courrier or Chronique de Paris. 
Doubtless it was too early for any chiffonier 
of gossip relating to the overnight horrors 
to have obtained any information as to what 
had happened. But, in the place of such news 
as this, there were thundering denunciations 
against the king, the queen and the royal family, 


MAEGOT VfiEAC 


173 


as well as the aristocracy, supplemented by the 
bare fact that the former’s supporters had re- 
sisted the people and so been righteously put to 
death, and that Louis with his adherents who 
were still alive — were to be sent to the temple by 
the Legislative Assembly to which they had fled 
for safety. 

“ There is not,” said Lucienne, after she had 
carefully read all the meagre details which the 
papers had to offer, “ a word that tells me anything 
that I want to know or throws light upon the 
massacre round the waggons. They say that the 
last remnants of the Swiss Guard made a stand 
there when forced to do so, but they add little 
more. Oh ! ” she cried, thrusting her hands 
through her beautiful golden hair from which 
the cap was of course removed at this time, “ oh ! 
I cannot stay here in this ignorance as to what 
may have become of him. I must go out and see 
what news I can obtain.” 

“ At least wait until it is dark,” replied Ma- 
dame Verac, “ which will not be for some time 
yet. Meanwhile, you can sleep in safety up- 
stairs. There is no one in this house but myself, 
since my servant left me a week ago. I thought 
her a fool when she told me that there were 
rumours amongst the people that something was 
going to happen. But now I know that what 
she learnt in the wine shops was true enough, 
and that her terror was justified.” 

Acting upon the sage counsels of her newly- 


174 


THE YEAR ONE 


found friend, Lucienne did wait until eight 
o’clock, by which time the sun had set and dark- 
ness was at hand. She slept heavily, dream- 
lessly for some hours — heaven knows she needed 
such sleep ! — and, so, awoke refreshed at last and 
ready for her enterprise. 

At first Madame Yerac was not willing to let 
her go forth alone into the streets on such a 
night as this — and what a night of horror it was 
these women could well understand by listening 
to the howling and shouting that was going on 
outside the closed shop — but at last she was 
forced to consent to Lucienne’s doing so. For 
it was apparent to the elder woman that the 
other was now worked up to such a state of 
agitation and frenzy that it might even be worse 
for her to remain cooped up indoors than to go 
out and mix with the mob. And she well knew, 
besides, that no women — except aristocrats ! — 
had been molested or ill-treated during the pas- 
sage of the last three years, or since the fall of 
the Bastille, and it was not probable that even 
the events of what soon came to be known as 
the Massacre of St. Laurent (the Saint Day of 
the 10th August) would alter that state of affairs. 

“ Yet,” said Madame Yerac, still full of caution, 
“ you must be one of the mob, one of the people, 
now and for many days ; perhaps for months to 
come. I called you Margot — my niece — before 
these scelerats this morning, and my niece Mar- 
got, you must continue to be. Margot Yerac — 


MAEGOT VfcRAC 175 

that is madame’s name henceforth, and till these 
troubles are ended.” 

“ God bless you,” said Lucienne again, and as 
she had already said many times ; she appearing 
in her present trouble and sorrow to be unable 
to find any other method of expressing her grati- 
tude than these words. “ God bless you. If the 
day should ever come that I can repay you ” 

“Hay. Nay. Do not think of that. Now, 
since you will go and are resolved to go alone, 
let me do as much as I can to make you what 
my niece, my supposed niece, Margot V erac, 
should be. Voyons , madame, those hands will 
not do at all, in spite of your having tried to 
dirty them last night.” Whereupon, the good 
woman seized a jar of pickled walnuts which 
stood on a shelf behind the counter and poured 
some of the liqueur out into a saucer. “ Wet your 
hands, rub them all over with that,” she said, 
“ and their whiteness will be gone for to-night at 
least.” 

Next, she stained Lucienne’s cheeks in the 
same manner, while saying that on the morrow 
she must find some way of dyeing her hair, or of 
discolouring it. “Not because,” she said, “the 
peasants from our part of France do not have 
fair hair, but because madame has no desire to 
be recognised. Some of these warders you told 
me of may be about and if they saw you — well ! 
— you understand.” 

“Yes, I understand,” Lucienne said. “I un- 


176 


THE YEAR ONE 


derstand very well. I should become the inhabi- 
tant of a prison and it might not be the one he 
is in. That would be worse than Monsieur Hope 
being in La Force and I outside.” 

And so, at last, Lucienne was ready to go out, 
to go first to that spot where, over night, she had 
seen the commencement of the awful struggle 
around those waggons which had conveyed the 
prisoners from Rennes ; the spot from which she 
had arisen a woman of the people while leaving 
behind her another woman in whose pocket was 
that Acte cP accusation which transformed her 
into the ci-devant Marquise d’Aubray de Bri- 
court. 

Upon her shoulders, warm as the night was, 
she wore a little cape which had once belonged 
to Madame Yerac’s servant and had been left 
behind by the girl when the talk she had over- 
heard in the wineshops outside had caused her 
to rush away from Paris in terror ; while in her 
hand Lucienne carried a basket such as those 
servants used who went marketing. For the 
rest she wore upon her head the cap of liberty 
and across her shoulders the tricolour scarf. 

“ Be careful,” said Madame Yerac; “in heav- 
en’s name be careful, and come back soon. If I 
know aught of the Parisians, they are now be- 
lyond all bounds and anything may happen. Ma- 
dame, remember you are still beautiful in spite 
of the clothes you wear and of your stained skin.” 

“I will be careful,” Lucienne answered, as she 


MAEGOT YfiEAO 177 

stepped into the street, “ and I will come back as 
soon as I have obtained some news.” 

And, now, she was in the street itself and 
making her way as swiftly as she could to the 
spot where, over night, that release, which, by a 
slight change of circumstances, might have been 
her death, had come. While, as she went along 
and carefully recalled each spot she had passed 
in the morning so that she should find her way, 
she also recalled the decision she had come to as 
regarded her future conduct. 

“ I vowed,” she whispered to herself, “ that I 
would submit to all, no matter what fresh hor- 
rors I might have to endure, what wretches I 
might have to suffer companionship with, what 
insults may be offered to me. And I will keep 
my vow for his sake, to obtain his freedom! 
Come what may, come what will, I will find him, 
aye, and free him if I can. I will be that which 
I seem to be — one of the people. Thus I may 
succeed, and thus alone. What was it Madame 
Yerac said; what was it she bade me remember? 
That I was beautiful. So be it. I pray heaven 
I am. In that way I may win even some of 
these people to help me.” 

From that moment Lucienne began her task, 
from that moment her womanly wit and inge- 
nuity were directed towards one thing alone — 
towards playing well the part she had assumed, 
the part which she aimed at portraying faith- 
fully — that of one of the people. And, hard 


178 


THE YEAR ONE 


though it was for one, in whose veins ran such 
blood as hers to do all that she resolved upon, 
she did it nevertheless. From that moment Lu- 
cienne d’ Aubray was non-existent ; Margot Y erac 
was born in her place. 

Humming lightly to herself; the stalk of a 
piece of blood-red geranium between her scarlet 
lips ; her cap of liberty stuck jauntily upon one 
side of her head ; she went on towards the spot 
where over night the last stand of the last of the 
Swiss Guards had taken place. And to every 
glance thrown at her by men, she returned — her 
soul sickening within her meanwhile ! — a saucy 
glance ; to every word whispered in her ear she 
had an answer. Yet she never stopped in the 
swinging, almost insolent, stride which she had 
assumed, or only stopped on one occasion to flick 
the face of a young man who came too close, 
with the geranium stalk, and, on another, to say 
a gibing word in place of the withering and con- 
temptuous look which, in other circumstances, she 
would have bestowed on a man who addressed 
her familiarly. 

How she did these things she never could re- 
call in later days, no more than she could after- 
wards understand how there had been given to 
her the power to assume the hateful role she had 
learnt to play. Yet, somehow, it was done ; and 
the carefully nurtured patrician who, until she 
was forced into a marriage with one hardly fit 
to be her lackey, had never heard a word of un- 


MARGOT VfcRAC 


179 


due familiarity spoken, nor mixed with any who 
were not her equals, found herself alone in the un- 
known and distracted capital and playing the part 
of a woman belonging to the most inferior classes. 

Nor was this all she had to endure, since hid- 
eous sights met her eyes whichever way she 
turned. Many of the Marseillais were still 
roaming about the streets in the drunken con- 
dition in which they had been kept since they 
were brought to Paris, with the object of partic- 
ipating in the attack on the king’s palace, and 
to encounter these ruffians was to risk being 
stricken almost to death with horror. One of 
these human fiends went by Lucienne with a 
human head stuck on a pike which he bore ; an- 
other bore a human hand. And since she could 
not do all that the other women in the street did 
— those furies who were to play the parts ere 
long of Lecheresses de Sang , and of Vengeresses — 
since she could neither applaud those passers-by, 
nor shriek “ Vive la Nation ,” nor join in the 
song “ La Carmagnole and sing : 

“ Madame Veto avait promis 
De faire egorger tout Paris,” 

she would shrink trembling into the opening of 
some alley or ruelle and wait until the monsters 
had passed on. For, deeply as she had sworn to 
act a part before others, there was no need, even 
though it had been possible for her to do so, to 
act one to herself. 


180 


THE YEAR ONE 


At last she reached the spot, the very spot 
where, last night, the seething crowd, composed 
of revolted National Guards, of the mob let 
loose from the Faubourgs of St. Antoine and 
St. Marceau, and of the savage Marseillais, had 
butchered the last remnants of the Swiss Guards ; 
the spot where she and George Hope had been 
swept apart ere she fell senseless. 

No w — to-night — beneath the stars — surrounded 
by all the warm, luscious heat of an August even- 
ing, there was still a crowd at this spot, yet a 
different one from that of twenty-four hours ago. 
A crowd of people in whose hearts the thirst for 
blood and murder lurked as deeply as it had done 
in the hearts of those of their kind who were 
there last night, yet a thirst that lurked quies- 
cent, and, for the moment, still. The work was 
done for the present, they told each other — for 
the present. They could afford to stand there 
quietly and gloat over their triumph. Poor and 
mean-looking, ill-clad and, in many cases, bearing 
about them a lean and hungry, as well as a half- 
starved, look such as those possess who have not 
only been half starved themselves during all their 
lives, but whose parents and grandparents have 
been so before them, besides being also down 
trodden and ill used. They stood there gloating 
as they pointed to dark patches on the ground, 
while whispering and chuckling and muttering 
that the sheep had at last become the wolves, 
that the wrens had become the hawks. And 


MAEGOT YfiEAC 


181 


God knows it was true! they or their fathers 
had indeed been sheep before the wolves and 
wrens beneath the hawks, and beasts of burden 
who bowed their beaten and aching backs before 
their masters and owners, only — as they gloated 
— they forgot one thing. They forgot that their 
persecutors and owners and masters were dead 
and gone and, so, had escaped from them and 
their vengeance, — they forgot that the last of a 
triumphant, cruel race — the worst of a bad and 
cruel race — Louis le Bien Aime , was gone, and 
that they were retaliating on those who had 
never harmed them, on those who had indeed 
tried to make some restitution. Never had the 
sins of the fathers been visited more heavily on 
the children than they were visiting those sins 
now, nor more unjustly. 

Or, perhaps, instead of forgetting, the hags 
and the ragged girls whose bones were almost 
through their skin, the men with spots upon their 
garments and smears upon their faces and hands, 
did not truly know. It may be so, it may be 
that these blind, savage instruments of a so- 
called righteous retaliation were, in truth, the 
ignorant tools of the foul monsters — themselves 
in some few cases deceived — who swayed Jacob- 
ins and Girondists and ruled that Eepublic which 
was now so soon to be proclaimed. The tools, 
the instruments of the blood-guilty wretches, 
Marat and Danton and Kobespierre. 


CHAPTER XVI 

DANSONS LA CARMAGNOLE ! 

Standing amongst those people on this soft, 
balmy summer night, Lucienne understood, as 
she listened to their talk, how deep a thirst for 
retaliation and for blood had been aroused at 
last, and, in doing so, recognised the task that 
was before her. She grasped the fact more 
clearly to-night than perhaps she had ever done 
before, she comprehended that, to have been 
aught but one of the downtrodden of the past ; 
or one who claimed descent from those who had 
lain long in prisons — often forgotten ! — or one 
whose fathers had died in their sweat and misery 
at the galleys ; or one of those whose mothers 
had been torn from their husbands to be made a 
noble’s plaything till he wearied of it as a child 
wearies of a pretty toy, was to stand now in aw- 
ful deadly peril. For all aristocrats had now to 
suffer equally, the innocent for the guilty ; the 
children of those who had never outraged or ill- 
treated their dependants and subordinates had 
to suffer alike with those who were the children 
of brutal masters, of hard judges and of ravish- 
ers. There were but two orders now — the corn- 
182 


DANSONS LA CARMAGNOLE ! 183 


mon order which was triumphant at last ; the 
aristocratic order which was now beaten down 
beneath the feet of the uprisen. 

“ The day has come,” one man said, turning to 
Lucienne as she stood gazing at the spot where 
she had last seen George Hope. “ God ! we have 
waited long for it. Were you here yesterday 
evening, citoyenne ? ” he asked, changing from 
his reflections to more everyday matters. 

“ Yes,” Lucienne answered, looking up at the 
man and seeing that, though young and well- 
favoured, he had a grave, stern look which might 
not augur happily for any who should fall into 
his power. “ Yes, I was here.” 

“ You saw the end of it all, then,” the man 
went on. “ You saw the Swiss Guard receive 
its coup de grace. The Swiss Guard ! The for- 
eigners whom Louis XIII. — Louis le Juste ! ” and 
he laughed scornfully, “ brought into France to 
protect him against his own people. Soit ! 
They could not protect his descendant last night 
nor all day yesterday.” 

“ I am a girl from the country,” said Lucienne, 
“ who only came to my aunt’s a day or so ago. 
Tell me, what had they done — what had Louis 
done — I mean more than ordinary — for this to 
happen yesterday?” She asked the question 
with a good reason since it was absolutely neces- 
sary that she who was, to all outward seeming, 
one of the revolted people should know the rea- 
son why Louis should at last have been stormed 


184 


THE YEAR ONE 


in his own palace, as well as why his own partic- 
ular guards should have been slaughtered there 
and in the streets and everywhere they had been 
found. For she knew nothing until she wit- 
nessed that terrible scene last night — nothing 
more than all people coming from the provinces 
had known for the last three years, namely, that 
all the rights and powers of the better classes 
had gradually been withdrawn from them one 
by one, that the king was in truth no longer a 
king, and that the nobility and upper classes had 
long been quitting the country in vast numbers, 
while those who remained were being imprisoned 
or treated as young de Geneste had been treated, 
and also, in some cases, hanged to the lamp 
posts. 

“ What had they done ! ” the man repeated 
bitterly, “ Ciel ! what have they not done. Has 
not Louis Capet lied again and again, has he not 
called in the armies of foreign lands to slaughter 
his people, has not the German army invaded 
France? And Madame Veto — the Austrian 
woman — do you not know how she has spurred 
him on, how she has squandered our money like 
water as well as betrayed us to the foreigners 
and assisted every man in France who has hated 
his own country? Thus— thus — the storm has 
burst. It is marvellous that it has not done so 
before.” 

The explanation the man gave was not a true 
one, as all the world knows now and has long 


DANSONS LA CARMAGNOLE! 185 


since known, yet it was that which ninety per- 
sons out of a hundred then in France would have 
given. It was the common answer of every revo- 
lutionist in France. And there were some who 
believed that it was a true one. 

“They fell there, just there,” a girl’s voice 
broke in now, and Lucienne could see in the 
glimmer of the remaining dusk that the other 
was pointing to a spot close by where she herself 
had fallen senseless beneath the waggon. “ Oh- 
he , it was a night ! And with them fell some of 
their own kind, some of the accursed creatures 
who are called royalists and who were being 
brought from the seacoast for trial. Figurez- 
vous, it was superb.” 

“ How did that happen, Roberte ? ” asked an- 
other woman, a big, brawny creature, who had a 
knife stuck in her belt. “ How ? Tell us that. 
As for me, I was away elsewhere. There was 
something to be got last night,” and she slapped 
a pouch she carried by her side. 

“ Oh ! figurez-vous , the Swiss backed up to- 
wards where those royalists stood by their 
waggons — they did not splash us with mud as 
the aristocrat’s coaches and cabriolets have often 
done ! — and when the Swiss w T ere shot and hacked 
to death, some of the aristocrats were shot, too. 
By accident, tu comprends / yet shot all the 
same. Ho ! there was an old woman, grey and 
hideous, a worker with hard and wrinkled hands, 
one who should have known better than to be a 


186 


THE YEAR ONE 


follower of these foul nobles. She was shot 
dead, I think, by a bullet through the mouth.” 

“ Good,” said two or three standing by. 
“ Good. She merited it.” 

“ Then there was another,” the girl went on, 
“ young and good-looking. Shot through the 
head. And, mort de ma vie, when they took her 
body away this morning to fling it into the Seine 
they found her Acte d' accusation in her pocket. 
Oh ! they did, I know, for I came back after 
daybreak. I could not keep away. And it bore 
titles and names — ci-devant titles and names you 
understand, — that she could scarce have remem- 
bered it would seem.” 

“What ails you, citoyenne,” exclaimed the 
stern-looking man as he glanced down at 
Lucienne. “What? Why do you stagger? 
Do you pity this aristocrat? If so you will 
not do for Paris but had best return to the 
country.” 

“ Ho. Ho,” said Lucienne, understanding that 
she had betrayed herself. “Ho. Ho. But I 
saw it too and — and — that girl’s description re- 
calls it all to me. And — and — I have not had 
much acquaintance with death as yet.” 

“ You will have plenty if you stay here,” the 
man replied grimly. “ Its harvest is about to be 
reaped in full.” 

But Lucienne scarcely heard his words, since 
now the creature called Roberte was going on 
with her narrative, which was taking at this mo- 


DANSONS LA CARMAGNOLE ! 187 


ment the form of an answer to some question 
that had just been asked her. 

“No,” she was saying, “there were none of 
the men killed, so far as I saw, over night. None 
of the royalist prisoners, though scores of other 
people. They were taken off to the prisons as 
soon as could be. At once they were taken.” 

That George was not killed, Lucienne had be- 
lieved from the first. Had she not peered, full 
of anxiety, upon the ground to look for him ere 
she first quitted the gardens last night, and had 
she not also given a second glance as she passed 
by the place again when daylight had come, so as 
to make sure that he was not there ? Yet, never- 
theless, it cheered her to hear the girl’s confirma- 
tion of her belief that George was not slain — it 
cheered her even though she learnt that he was 
undoubtedly in a prison. For though he might 
be in a prison, was not that, she asked herself, 
better than being where the girl who was sup- 
posed to be herself was now, namely, floating 
dead down the Seine. 

“Ay,” she murmured to herself, “ay, a thou- 
sand times ; for the prison means only a probable 
death, a death from which he may yet be saved. 
Had he fallen here, death would already have 
claimed him.” 

Yet now she started at what she heard the 
other woman say ; at her words uttered to an- 
other bystander — another soon to be vengeresse 
— in a cruel tone. 


188 


THE YEAR ONE 


“ You hear, bonne amie , you hear, Brigitte?” 
this woman murmured, her lips close to the 
other’s ear. “ You hear ? Some more aristocrats 
have gone to the prisons. The prisons! You 
know the whisper that is going round — you 
know what Danton’s friends are saying ? ” 

“ If I hear ! If I know ! ” the other replied 
significantly. While, if there had been any re- 
maining light of day, those standing near might 
have seen a strange action on that other’s part. 
They might have seen her lift her dirty finger to 
the red cap she wore and then run that finger 
along her bare throat, and, next, thrust it on to 
her bare bosom above the heart — the pressure 
indenting the flesh momentarily as she did so. 

“ C'est ga. N'est pas f ” she whispered, and 
the other whispered back, “ Si, c'est ga” 

But, in the darkness which was all around 
now, there were none could see that action and 
few who could hear her words. Yet there was 
one who did so — one — Lucienne. She had moved 
away from the vicinity of the man who had 
spoken to her, in doubt as to whether he did not 
suspect her of being other than she appeared to 
be, and, in doing so, had unconsciously, certainly 
unintentionally, drawn near to those two women. 
While, as she did so she, at least, had heard their 
words and the suggestive tones in which they 
were uttered. Words and tones that struck a 
chill to her heart which, she thought, must be 
like the chill of death. 


DANSONS LA CARMAGNOLE ! 189 


Yet she was determined to know more, if pos- 
sible; she was resolved to know what lay be- 
neath those muttered sentences. Wherefore, 
once again she braced herself to act a part, to do 
all and to suffer all. 

“ Citoyennes,” she whispered in her turn, as 
she edged a little nearer to the two figures, 
“ what is it that has to be done ? Tell me. I 
am eager to know and to take part in any good 
work. Tell me.” 

Both the other women turned their eyes on 
her, though, in the darkness, they could scarcely 
distinguish aught except that a young woman 
wearing a cap of liberty upon her head was ad- 
dressing them — a woman who held something 
between her lips. 

“What is your section; where do you live, 
jeune femme f ” one said. “ It must be outside 
Paris if neither you nor your lover have heard 
aught. You have a lover, I should suppose. 
You seem young and fresh and, if I can judge in 
the darkness, well favoured. Who is he ? ” 

“ I have no lover.” 

“ No lover ! Why not ? What are you, then ? 
A married woman, perhaps,” she sneered. 
“ Come, tell us. Is it possible none love you ? ” 

“ None have ever told me so.” 

“ Are you so cold that none dare tell you so ? 
Is that it ? Or are you vowed like us to one 
thing alone — the carrying through of some great 
deed in these stirring times ? ” 


190 


THE YEAE ONE 


“Yes, that is it. Yes. That is what I am 
vowed to. I have no time — nor opportunity — 
for love. I think but of one thing.” 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ To right a great wrong.” 

“ Good ! Good ! To right a great wrong,” 
cried the woman who was interrogating her, 
while supposing that here was one who had suf- 
fered and now saw her opportunity for retalia- 
tion. “ Good ! To right a great wrong. Dieu ! 
that is what we all mean to do.” Then, sud- 
denly, the other woman interrupted, saying, 
“ To whom has this wrong been done? To you, 
or to another ? ” 

“I myself have suffered. Yet — yet — it is not 
my wrongs I seek to right.” 

“ You seek to right the wrongs of another, and 
— by your tone — I guess that they are wrongs 
done to a man. And yet you do not love each 
other ? ” 

“ There can be no — love — between us. Never. 
Never.” 

“ Ha ! ” said the first woman, and now she 
tapped Lucienne’s arm gently, while — if such a 
thing could have been — one might have thought 
that some chord of compassion, of womanly com- 
passion, had come into her voice. “ So ! that is 
it. We can understand, my girl. Very well we 
can. The wrong has been done to one whom you 
might have loved had not some cursed bar come 
between you — perhaps some aristocrat Nay. 


DANSONS LA CAEMAGNOLE! 191 


Nay,” she broke off, “ what is that — what are 
you doing? Not weeping, surely. Yet I could 
swear I heard you sob.” 

“Never,” said Lucienne. “Never;” and now 
she laughed stridently. “ Sobbing indeed ! Why ! 
I have no more time for that than for — love. 
Come,” she said, “ tell me what is to be done. 
Let me take my part in it. I must be doing 
something or I shall die. Tell me. Tell me.” 

“You have not yet told us what is your 
section ? ” 

“Section,” cried Lucienne, and now she was 
indeed an actress, one of whom Julie Candeille, 
who was nightly filling one of the theatres, 
which were at this time crowded, might have 
been envious. “ Section ! What section should 
I belong to ? I have come from the country 
with but one idea, one hope — one longing ” 

“ To right his wrongs ? ” 

“ Yes. To help him. Tell me what it is that 
is going to be done.” 

“Nothing that will help him, though it will be 
hard for the aristocrats. Yet I dare not chatter 
nor tell too much. What is that thing you have 
in your mouth ? ” 

“ A flower,” said Lucienne, who, thinking it 
helped her to assume a reckless debonnaire ap- 
pearance had not thrown it away, but, instead, 
had carried it between her lips since she left 
Madame Yerac'S. “A geranium.” 

“ A geranium. What is its colour ? ” 


192 


THE YEAH OHE 


“ Red.” 

“ Red ! Is it blood red ? ” 

While, as the woman spoke, it seemed to Lu- 
cienne as though, even through the dusky veil of 
night, she could perceive her eyes looking pierc- 
ingly out from underneath her heavy eyebrows. 

“ Yes. It is that.” 

“ Bon ! Remember that colour and, with it 
couple the words the 4 prisons of Paris.’ Keep 

your eyes and ears open and you will learn 

Ha ! ” she cried, “ the Carmagnole.” 

It was, indeed, the Carmagnole that the woman 
heard sung by a noisy, half-drunken, and wholly 
maddened crowd which now came sweeping out 
from the Rue St. Honore across the gardens : 
a crowd formed of ragged, ferocious-looking 
men, of equally ragged, ferocious-looking women, 
and of ragged boys and girls. A crowd that 
danced and whooped and howled, and then broke 
off to sing : 


“ Dansons la Carmagnole 
— Vive le son du Canon ! ” 

even as they still danced. And .it seemed, also, 
as if there was something infectious in their wild, 
devilish excitement ; something maddening that 
communicated itself to all with whom they came 
in contact. For others joined the number of the 
dancers and singers as they passed along, others 
who hurled themselves, indeed, into the broken 
ranks as though they were mad with frenzy. An 


DANSONS LA CAKMAGNOLE ! 193 


old man going by suddenly seized a girl who, 
herself, became possessed with the agitation of 
the moment, and — even as he piped in a shrill 
voice, “ Madame Veto avait joromisV while, in her 
clearer notes, she continued the refrain — whirled 
her round as some maddened dervish might have 
whirled himself before those who whipped him. 
Then, next, like wildfire, the delirium seemed to 
seize upon all who had been standing a moment 
before round the spot where the last remnants of 
the Swiss Guard had been hacked to pieces — 
standing there and pointing, ere the darkness set 
in, to where a huge pool of blood had dyed the 
paths. It seized upon them all, not even except- 
ing Lucienne, who, distraught and maddened by 
what she had heard and by the horrors suggested 
by the conversation of those women, seemed at 
last to be bereft of her senses. So bereft that — 
even while she deemed herself transformed into a 
maniac, a creature soiled by her own actions and 
her ow r n abandonment of all that, hitherto, she 
had considered worthy of her honour and re- 
spect — she found herself carried round and round 
in the arms of one of the women and joining 
madly, deliriously, in the refrain of the hateful, 
hideous song as she abandoned herself to the 
frenzy of the moment. 

Yet, not half an hour later, and when, having 
released herself from the woman’s arms as all the 
ribands and would-be murderers and murderesses 
had passed on their way with fresh howlings and 


194 


THE YEAR ONE 


yellings and dancing and singing, she found her- 
self half sitting, half lying, on a stone bench and 
weeping as though her heart would break. 

“For his sake. To save him,” was all that 
she could murmur to herself. “ For his sake ! 
For that reason alone may God forgive me and 
pardon me. For that, and because I have gone 
mad at last.” 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE INHABITANTS OF LA FORCE 

“ La Force n } etait remplie que de coquina et de coquines qui 
tenaient des propos abominables et chantaient des chansons detest- 
ables .” — Memoires de la Duchesse de Tourzel . 1 

It stood — that prison damned to the recollec- 
tion of countless generations yet to come because 
of the crimes which were soon to be perpetrated 
within its walls ; because, too, of the slaughter 
and mutilation and execrable insults offered to 
the dead bodies of women who were the victims 
of that slaughter — between the Rue du Roi de 

1 In earlier romances dealing with the French Revolution, 
and especially in a very conspicuous one by a recent great 
writer, La Force has been represented as being full — during the 
autumn of 1792 — of aristocratic prisoners awaiting their trial 
and death by the guillotine. I am, however, constrained to 
state that these representations are inaccurate. In no time 
during 1792 was La Force filled with aristocrats, but, instead, 
with the Coquins and Coquines of whom Madame, afterwards 
the Duchesse, de Tourzel has spoken. The only exceptions, 
and these almost all women, were the Princess de Lamballe, 
Madame de Tourzel herself, with her daughter, Pauline, the 
ladies of the Princess’s suite, and one or two others, numbering 
nine in all. As regards the statement that the aristocrats were 
awaiting their sentence and execution by the guillotine, such a 
thing was impossible. Before the second of September there 
had not been a dozen executions by this new process, and, after 
the sixth, when the massacres were finished, there were no 
prisoners at all in La Force for some time. 

195 


196 


THE YEAR ONE 


Sicile, the Rue Culture and the Rue Pavee, and 
served at the time when George Hope was flung 
into it, as a supplement or dependance to those 
other prisons, L’Abbaye and Du Chatelet. It 
stood thus and continued so to stand for another 
fifty years — old, decayed, and repulsive looking — 
and bearing marks about its worn and defaced 
exterior which recalled to many who glanced at 
it those marks which may be seen on the faces of 
old, worn, and evil-living men and women. For 
another half century it was allowed to stand a 
revolting, loathsome memorial of royalist women 
hacked to pieces, of their bodies being torn into 
fragments, of their limbs being fired as projectiles 
from cannons, of their dead faces being painted, 
of the hair on their dead and decapitated heads 
being curled and dressed by local barbers. Then, 
at last, it was pulled down amidst the curses and 
objurgations of a later and less ferocious genera- 
tion, as well as of many who came from the other 
quarters of Paris to witness its demolition. So, 
at last, the hard-working dwellers in the Marais 
were free of its presence. 

But when George Hope was conducted into 
La Force at midnight of the 10th August, three 
weeks had still to pass ere the horrible massacres 
mentioned above took place. Consequently, as 
he passed into the miserable, darksome den, full 
of broken floors, of narrow passages and low ceil- 
ings, as well as cramped and confined rooms 
which, in many cases, were scarcely larger than 


THE INHABITANTS OF LA FOKCE 197 


ordinary cupboards, there were no signs visible 
that the place to which he had now been brought 
was aught but one of the ordinary houses of de- 
tention or maisons d? arret of which Paris had 
always been full and was now becoming fuller, 
as the great Terror drew nearer and nearer. 

Yet, if no such signs were visible, there 
were, at least, some strange sounds to be heard 
proceeding from various parts of the building; 
sounds which, in their turn, would have failed to 
give any newcomer the idea that he was in a 
prison. From many quarters there proceeded 
the sounds of riotous singing — the singing of 
coarse, vulgar songs, such as many of those who 
were already incarcerated there might well be 
supposed to indulge in ; while, in what was called 
the salle du conseil (a dirty, square-shaped apart- 
ment) the concierge who, George afterwards 
learnt, was a woman named Hiancre, was eating 
her supper consisting of a herring and a piece of 
bread. 

“ Tiens ,” this woman cried, springing to her 
feet on the appearance of George and the warder 
who conducted him. “ Another fourne , and at 
midnight, too ! And where does this monsieur 
come from ? ” she asked of the warder, while she 
observed that his head was bound up with a 
cloth. 

“ He comes,” the man replied, “ to a better 
place than he has left, at any rate. At least he 
will not die — to-night, a thing which he has been 


198 


THE YEAR ONE 


very near to. And so have I. Come, take his 
name and this warrant — it is signed by Danton — 
and let me go. My head is split half open.” 

“ You have been in the riots ? ” 

“ Riots ! Ay, we have. Thank heaven this is 
the last batch. Come, Madame Hiancre, come. 
Enter his name in your register and let me go.” 

“ I must have the warrant to copy. Give it 
me.” 

“ Tiens ! ” she cried a moment later, and after 
she had regarded the warrant which the man 
produced. “ Tiens , un Anglais ! How did he 
come into your hands ? And a sailor, too ! Mon 
Dieu ! We have all sorts here, but not one of his 
kind. Tell me.” 

“ I will tell you later,” said George, speaking 
for the first time, and addressing the concierge 
who seemed to be a good-natured creature and, 
therefore, very much out of place here. “ Mean- 
while, I beseech you to let me go to my cell, or 
room, or whatever it may be. I am desirous to 
be alone.” 

“ Ho ! Ho ! you shall go soon enough,” the 
woman cried. “ Tete de mon chien ! I wish all 
our guests were like you. I cannot get them to 
bed at all when once they are out of their cachots. 
I must be more severe. I must, I must.” After 
which she proceeded to inscribe in what was 
termed the livre dlecrou, the prisoner’s name and 
calling — she spelling each word out as she wrote 
it in a large, ill-formed hand. 


THE INHABITANTS OF LA FORCE 199 


“ George Hope. Officier Anglais. Tiens I 
what have you to do in France? Sent from 
Bricourt to Rennes and from Rennes to Paris. 
To be detained until new orders are sent. Signed 
6 Danton.’ ” 

“ Good,” she said. “Good. Now we will send 
for Frangois. Francois,” she cried, going to a 
door and screaming down a passage. “ Francois, 
wake up. Here is a fresh arrival. Wake up, 
animal. Wake up, Dindon. Mon Dieu ! if my 
coquins of prisoners would only sleep as he does. 
Escargot ! be quick.” 

These summonses served to produce, at last, a 
figure which to George’s mind seemed as unsuit- 
able to a prison as could well be, yet one which 
was as welcome a sight to him as it had been, and 
was to be, to countless unhappy detenus in that 
prison who, but a little later, passed away from 
their miseries forever. This figure was that of a 
young man with a face so red and good-humoured, 
and a mouth so large and Gargantuan, that 
scarcely could the most trembling and frightened 
prisoner refrain from laughing as he or she re- 
garded Francis, the gaoler. Nor did those looks 
belie his nature, which was kind and simple, so 
that, perhaps, it is not to be wondered at that, in 
many memories left behind by those who even- 
tually escaped, and in many letters written by 
those who, a little later, rested forever in les 
cimetieres des sujpjplicies , (letters still preserved 
by their descendants) he should be spoken of as 


200 


THE YEAR ONE 


one who was the only bright spot in their mel- 
ancholy sojourn at La Force. 

“ Conduct this monsieur to the cachot , 53,” the 
concierge cried now on the appearance of this 
man. “ It was vacated by Madame de St. Bris 
this morning — who — who — well ! no matter ; 
while, as for food — monsieur will not be partic- 
ular to-night. To-morrow he shall have sufficient. 
Va-tfen, imbecile. Vile .” 

Whereupon Franpois, after bidding George 
Hope follow him, led the way up two flight of 
stairs, after which he unlocked a door, and ush- 
ered his prisoner into Ho. 53. 

“ It is a good room,” the gaoler said after he 
had lit a half consumed candle which was fitted 
into a rusty iron candlestick, “ as monsieur will 
see to-morrow. If monsieur stands on the bed 
he can look out into the Rue des Ballets. Also, 
in the daytime, monsieur can mingle with the 
other pries. Ma foi! they are queer people 
— des droles — these guests, and monsieur had best 
keep his pockets closed tight. But then — then — 
well, at least they are society of a kind.” 

“ Who are they ? ” George asked, while he let 
his eyes wander round the miserable room in 
which he found himself, and observed that, be- 
yond the bed and a small table on which was an 
iron basin, it contained nothing else. “ And why 
should I keep my pockets closed ? ” 

“ Oh ! as for that,” replied Francois, who was 
now shaking up a mattress and arranging the 


THE INHABITANTS OF LA FORCE 201 


bed which had evidently not been made since 
the lady who had been spoken of left it in the 
morning (the idea of fresh sheets appearing to 
have no existence in his mind), “ as for that — 
well ! — they are not quite of the vieille souche. 
As for the ladies — les coquines — but no matter. 
Monsieur will see them. While, for the gentle- 
men — ha ! most of them are charged — only 
charged, monsieur will understand — with being 
forgers of assignats and — mon Dieu ! — it is in- 
credible ! with having false coins in their pockets. 
But still they are gay, oh ! quite gay.” 

“And the lady who went forth to-day, the 
lady in whose bed I am to sleep to-night and 
whose half burnt-out candle is to light me to 
that bed ? What of her ? Was she a coquine , 
too?” 

“Ah ! No ! No ! No ! Madame de St. Bris 
was a sad lady ; one who had suffered. But 
now, now — she suffers no more. Ah ! poor lady. 
Her son joined Brunswick who is invading France 
and, lo ! he was killed in the first encounter with 
the brave Dumouriez. And madame was sent 
here because of her son’s treason, and bore up 
bravely — oh! so bravely — till she heard of his 
death, and then ” 

“ Enough,” said George. “ I understand. 
Leave me now, I beg of you. Leave me.” 

So, with many wishes for the prisoner’s repose, 
the gaoler did leave him after locking him in ere 
he went, while saying that for this night, but 


202 


THE YEAR ONE 


this night only, he might have the candle. Nay, 
if he was quiet and orderly, he might perhaps 
even leave it on other nights as Madame St. Bris 
had herself been permitted to have it; but at 
present he could not say. 

At last George was alone, alone for the first 
time. Alone — miserable and unhappy. 

“ Is she dead ? ” he whispered to himself, as he 
sat down upon the wretched bed — the lit de 
sangle of the prisons — from which, he felt sure, 
Madame de St. Bris had herself been carried 
away dead that morning, and was at last able to 
meditate over the events of the past few hours. 
“ Did Lucienne d’Aubray perish in the riot to- 
night? I saw her fall prostrate in that last 
rush of the mob against those unfortunate sol- 
diers — I saw the waggons move on as we were 
driven forward like a flock of sheep, and I could 
do nothing, with my hands manacled as they 
were and with the cord, by which the warder 
fastened me to another prisoner, around me. 

“ Dead,” he continued to muse as still he sat 
there, while his ears were greeted with the 
sounds of riotous singing from another part of 
the building ; singing that was now interrupted 
by the cries of the concierge bidding the revellers 
cease and go to bed. “ Dead, with, perhaps, that 
beauteous face trampled out of all recognition, 
and with, it may be, a bullet through her heart. 
Oh ! my God, my God, and I had hoped to do so 
much for her, to save her at last, to help her to 


THE INHABITANTS OF LA FOBCE 203 


escape out of France. And now she is dead, she 
must be dead, and I am here, a prisoner and 
marked for death myself.” 

Yet, though he could not repress the thought 
which rose to his mind that, ere long, he would 
himself be dead — since, in spite of the encourage- 
ment which he had often given to Lucienne to 
have no fear on his behalf, he had never believed 
that he would escape with life from the French 
Tribunals — that thought had no terrors for him. 
Nor was it accompanied by any regrets. From 
the first moment when he recognised that the 
launch of the “ Dragon ” would never be allowed 
to reach the ship on its return journey with Lu- 
cienne on board, he understood that he had set 
his existence upon the hazard of the die, and that 
it was more than probable that the cast would 
be against him. 

But still, even afterwards — afterwards, when 
they were sent to Bennes, and thence to Paris, 
he had cherished one great, one supreme, hope. 
The hope that, in some way, he might at least 
be able to help her, to aid her to escape no mat- 
ter what his own lot might be. And, now, there 
was no more hope ! She was dead, she must be 
dead ; or, if not that, then she was a prisoner in 
some other prison in Paris. And in such captiv- 
ity lurked death itself, certain and sure ; as cer- 
tain as the swifter death which he could not 
doubt she had already encountered. Therefore, 
in no way, was there any hope. 


204 : 


THE YEAR ONE 


The candle was guttering to its end as still he 
sat there, the candle which, he could not but 
conclude from Francois’ chatter, had been last 
extinguished when the former occupant of this 
room was no more, or which, perhaps, had been 
extinguished by her own hand ere she laid down 
to die alone and broken-hearted. It was time 
for him to obtain some rest if possible. Where- 
fore, blowing out the already smoking and 
smouldering wick, he flung himself upon the 
bed while, as he did so, he could not refrain 
from uttering one prayer. The prayer that, in 
spite of the little likelihood there was of Lucienne 
d’Aubray being still alive, it might still have 
pleased God in His mercy to let it be so, and that 
it might also please Him to grant that, in some 
way, they might come together again. 

And so, at last, he slept, since now the desper- 
ate prisoners and the ribands of the prison 
seemed to be themselves becoming more quiet, 
and, when he did so, he dreamt that Lucienne 
and he were free and had met again and that all 
her troubles and sorrows were past. 


CHAPTEK XVIII 


A MESSAGE 

By the time that a week had passed George 
Hope was acquainted, by sight, with all his fel- 
low-prisoners in La Force and, personally, with 
several of them. Of women there were detained, 
as he discovered to his astonishment, over two 
hundred, most of them being of that character 
which is the worst possible for the sex to bear, 
while several others were accused of having burst 
into the Tuileries and stolen linen and plate; 
this being, strange as it may appear, an awful 
crime, since, from the dawn of the 10th of 
August, everything in the palace had become the 
property of the nation. Of the remaining women 
incarcerated there, not more than a score of 
names stood (the record is still in existence !) on 
the livre d'ecrou under the heading “pour des 
motifs politiques .” 

u Pour des motifs politiques ! ” What were 
these motives ? One of the women, the unhappy 
Princesse de Lamballe, had been brought there 
from the temple; first, because she was the 
widow of a member of the House of Bourbon 
(Louis de Bourbon, Grand Veneur de France, son 
205 


206 


THE YEAR ONE 


of the Due de Penthievre) ; then, next, because 
she was kinswoman to the king and intimate 
friend of the queen, as well as superintendent of 
the queen’s household ; and because, also, on the 
10th of August, she had been found in the Tuil- 
eries. Truly, these crimes must have appeared 
awful in the eyes of her judges ! There, too, 
were Madame de Tourzel, her crime being that 
she was governess to the royal children; her 
daughter, Pauline, also a governess to these chil- 
dren; several ladies in waiting to the royal 
family from the members of which they were 
now separated; and other high born women 
whose crime was that they were aristocrats. 

The above ladies, George saw brought into the 
prison at midday, three days after he had himself 
been taken to it ; he saw the still beautiful Prin- 
cess led through the concierge's lodge in an al- 
most fainting condition, while supported and 
encouraged by her fellow-prisoners — one of them, 
Pauline de Tourzel being only seventeen years of 
age — and he saw all the other “ aristocrats ” bow 
low before them as they entered, the Duchesse 
de Rochefeuille going down on her knees to 
kiss the Princess’s hand. And, to their credit be 
it said, the coquines and the Jilles jper dues who 
were already in La Force, and the female robbers 
of the Tuileries as well as all the male prisoners 
— the forgers of assignats ; the pickpockets and 
footpads ; the soldiers who had pricked their own 
eyes with pins to avoid serving against Bruns- 


A MESSAGE 


207 


wick; the man who had committed the awful 
crime of sawing a tree of liberty in half ; an inn- 
keeper who had sold wine injurious to the health 
of the Marseillais, (pity it was he had not 
poisoned them !) ; and many more — all held their 
peace and regarded the newcomers with looks 
which were those of sympathy. 

With the Duchesse de Rochefeuille — incar- 
cerated because the Duke was known to be with 
other emigrants across the Rhine — George had 
sometimes exchanged a few words ; while, once, 
she, seeing that he was an Englishman and a 
gentleman, had asked him how he came to be 
there and had been much overcome at hearing 
that a d’Aubray de Bricourt should have met 
with such a fate as that which George said he 
feared must have befallen Lucienne. Perceiving, 
too, the grief that was depicted on the face of 
this grave, handsome young man as he spoke of 
all that the Marquise had suffered (both before 
he knew her and afterwards), the Duchess began 
to take a motherly interest in George Hope 
which, had it begun in any other spot more 
decent — and more safe ! — than the prison walls 
of La Force, might have ripened into firm friend- 
ship. But that was not to be! — few acquaint- 
anceships made in that awful spot had any op- 
portunity afforded them of blossoming into a 
stronger feeling in this world. 

To meet and to converse in this prison was easy 
enough to all the prisoners with the exception of 


208 


THE YEAR ONE 


the Princesse de Lamballe and the ladies accom- 
panying her, they being kept more fast under 
lock and key than any other of the detenus , and, 
in the yard where most of the prisoners were 
allowed to inhale such air as penetrated to it, 
George and the Duchess were often allowed to 
converse together, while often, when Madame de 
Rochefeuille would receive a small basket of 
fruit from an elderly woman who came to see 
her at intervals (and occasionally brought back a 
basket of linen which she had previously taken 
away to wash) that lady would ask George to 
participate in the gift. 

“ There is,” she said, one afternoon, as both of 
them sat in the yard, and in the shadiest place 
which they could obtain, “a small dish of 
peaches which my old friend and attendant, Ma- 
dame Yerac, has been allowed to bring in. I 
beg of you to partake of it with me. Madame 
Yerac, knowing that we are friends, has brought 
you two specially fine ones for yourself.” 

“ She is most good,” George began, while re- 
garding the woman spoken of as Madame Yerac 
with a grateful glance. “Yet I know not why 
she should be so thoughtful of me. I ” 

But he paused, since the Duchess continued 
hurriedly and as though with the determination 
of interrupting him. “ Nay, nay. You need not 
thank me. And — and — monsieur — do not eat 
those now. Keep them until you are alone in 
your own room. And then,” while as she spoke 


A MESSAGE 


209 


she sunk her voice to a whisper, so that neither 
the rapscallions who were also taking the air, 
nor the soldier of the National Guard who was 
patrolling the yard should hear her, — “ then — 
open them very carefully before eating” 

“I do not understand — ” George began in 
a tone of bewilderment, but again Madame de 
Rochefeuille went on rapidly. 

“You will do so. You will understand later. 
Meanwhile, eat these of mine. And, when that 
man’s back is turned, drop the others into your 
pocket.” 

Bewildered, yet still with sufficient tact about 
him to obey her, George did as she bade him the 
instant the soldier turned in his walk, while, 
grasping two other peaches which the Duchess 
thrust into his hand, he also obeyed her glance 
and, instantly, began to eat the first of that 
second pair of peaches while holding the other in 
his other hand. 

“Madame Verac is a good friend,” the duch- 
ess whispered again, while showing by a second 
glance that she appreciated his quickness in do- 
ing what she desired. “A good friend. Not 
only to me but to others of — my — unhappy — 
position.” 

“ Doubtless,” said George, recovering his cool- 
ness, though still overcome by wonderment as to 
what this mystery of the peaches might be, as 
well as why this Madame Yerac should have 
brought them for him. “ Doubtless. One can 


210 


THE YEAE ONE 


well believe that.” Then, as he spoke, he lifted 
his eyes to gaze into those of the woman standing 
close by. Yet the eyes told nothing, testified 
nothing, there being in them a look which, if 
anything, expressed fear more than ought else. 
Yet, fear of what? This, George could not di- 
vine. 

“ Go, Agathe,” the Duchess said now. “ Go 
— see ! — the clock is about to strike four. And 
come again soon, good friend. You know that I 
am always glad to see you. Meanwhile, tell your 
niece that monsieur thanks her for the peaches 
she sent him ; that, it may be, he will personally 
thank her for them ere long. Is it not so, mon- 
sieur ? ” she asked turning to George. 

“ It is indeed so, Madame la Duchesse. Yet, 
still, I am at a loss to know why Madame Yerac’s 
niece — as I think you said — should feel an in- 
terest in me. How can she ever have heard of 
me ! ” 

“I come here often, monsieur,” Madame Yerac 
said, speaking now for the first time : “ often ; 
to see my dear old mistress — and — and — well! 
my niece has heard of you.” Then, glancing her 
eyes round the prison yard to see if the soldier 
could hear what she was about to say and ob- 
serving that he was standing watching this 
little group, she muttered — while evidently 
changing the tenor of her words, “Well! no 
matter. Her little gift is a mere nothing. But 
ere long, perhaps, she will come in my place to 


A MESSAGE 


211 


visit Madame la Duchesse. She longs also to see 
monsieur ” 

“ All out,” bawled the sentry, as now the clock 
struck. “ Tout le monde sort. "No more visits 
to-day. All out. Away with you all.” While, 
bringing his musket to the slope, he used it un- 
ceremoniously to push all who were not prisoners 
towards the wicket gate that opened from the 
courtyard to the Rue St. Antoine. 

“ To your cachots ,” the fellow cried now to the 
prisoners. “ Vite. Vite. Mon Dieu ! will you 
stay here all day basking in the sun, as though 
the place was your own. To your appartements 
meublees , I say,” he continued in a voice of 
sardonic, of, perhaps, savage humour. “ To 
your grand salons, to your boudoirs. Va fen , 
saletes — va fen sacripantes ,” he cried to two girls 
who were regarding him with a mocking leer on 
their faces. “To your dens. To your dens.” 
Then, turning to the Duchesse de Rochefeuille, 
he said in a slightly more respectful tone — per- 
haps, because she was no longer young, “ Come, 
citizeness, come. You know the rules.” 

“ Yes, citizen, I know the rules. Only, as you 
know, I am somewhat lame. I cannot walk very 
fast. Yet, I will do my best. Monsieur,” to 
George, “ I beg the favour of your hand to that 
door.” While, with a bow to the man half of 
mockery, half, perhaps, of graciousness — the 
graciousness of those dead and gone days which 
seemed to her so far off now ! — the days when 


212 


THE YEAR ONE 


she was young and treated almost like a queen 
by right of her beauty and high birth — she went 
towards the door leading to the passage wherein 
her room was. 

And the sentry, now left alone in the yard, 
muttered to himself, “ May the devil confound 
these aristocrats, I say. For do what we, the 
nation, may, we cannot spoil their manners or 
make them seem afraid.” 

“ Good-night,” the Duchess said to George as, 
having escorted her to the door, he prepared to 
leave her. “ Good-night, monsieur. I hope you 
may enjoy the fruit Madame Verac brought. 
You should do so — if you eat it — very — slowly. 
Nay,” she exclaimed, “ nay — ask no questions ; 
that man is still regarding us.” Then, drawing 
herself back a little further into the passage as 
though to prevent the man from hearing what 
fell from her lips, if such a thing were possible, 
she whispered, 

“ Yet — if she — Madame Verac’s niece — carries 
out her intention — send her away — drive her 
away if necessary. Let her not stay here a mo- 
ment. This place is but a prison now; it will 
be a shambles ere long. I know it, prisoner 
though I am. Remember my words.” 

Then, lame as she was, she had disappeared in 
a moment. 

“Madame Verac’s niece,” George muttered to 
himself, while full of agitation and astonishment 
as he passed now from what was known as La 


A MESSAGE 


213 


Grande Force to La Petite Force , where his own 
cell was situated. “ Her niece ! A girl who has 
heard of me and pities me and sends me fruit 
which I am to eat carefully. Heavens! what 
does it, what can it mean ? What meaning lies 
beneath this gift ? ” 

In a state of bewilderment he pondered over 
all this as he went along through the mass of 
small houses which, from having once formed a 
narrow by-street themselves, had gradually been 
drawn in and accumulated by the two prisons 
until they had become a portion of those prisons. 
He thought of it all as he passed a sentry here 
and there in the passages — since the liberty ac- 
corded the detenus was carefully scrutinised — 
even as, while he did so he fingered nervously 
the peaches that were in his pockets. For, still, 
not knowing what had happened in the outer 
world since he became a prisoner here, he had 
no idea, no suspicion of what might be concealed 
beneath the words, “ Madame Yerac’s niece.” 

Yet, at last, he reached the miserable hole 
which was termed his u appartement.” At last 
he knew that he would be alone, shut in, unmo- 
lested, until the next morning when he would 
again be allowed to descend to the yard for 
some hours, there to mingle with the other pris- 
oners and also to eat the horrible meals provided 
for all of them. The meals consisting of bad 
eggs, boiled haricots, raw pickled herrings, and 
soup and bouilli which these prisoners shrewdly 


214 


THE YEAE ONE 


suspected — or said that they suspected — were 
made from human flesh, the flesh of those who 
died in La Force, though they were in truth 
made from the flesh of dead cows, horses and 
asses bought cheap. Meals washed down by 
dirty water drawn into dirty wine bottles and 
served out by the gaolers at the rate of one 
bottle a head per day, except when Francis, the 
only kindly one amongst them all, would some- 
times give the prisoners in exchange a clean 
bottle full of fresh water for a filthy one. 

Nervously, excitedly, George waited for the 
warder of this floor to pass by while locking in 
the inmates one by one — or dozens by dozens, 
according to how they happened to be incarcer- 
ated, or, rather, according to how they happened 
to have been flung into any place where there 
was room, since few were fortunate enough to 
possess a cell or cachot to themselves : he heard 
the keys being turned in lock after lock as the 
man came along the corridor. At last it was 
thrust into the lock of his own door, at last he 
was alone and free to inspect the peaches which 
he now drew from his pocket. Free to solve 
the mystery of why Madame Yerac’s niece should 
have sent them to him. 

U£ Eat them carefully,’ the Duchess said,” he 
whispered to himself as now he drew the fruit 
from out of his pocket. “ ‘ Eat them carefully,’ ” 
while, even as he so whispered, he began to peel 
one of them. 


A MESSAGE 


215 


Then, ere he had half accomplished his task, 
he understood ! As he stripped off the skin of 
the peach he held in his hand he saw that it had 
already been removed before and then replaced 
most carefully in its original position. He saw, 
too, that the fruit itself had been meddled with, 
a slice on one side was missing, a slice no thicker 
than an eighth part of an inch, even if so thick ; 
while in its place a space had been left in which 
had been placed as substitute a tiny piece of 
paper folded so as to fit exactly into the vacancy. 
Then, in a moment, he had seized the scrap, had 
smoothed it out and read it, while, as he did so, 
he whispered, “Thank God! Oh, thank God.” 
For on that scrap of paper were written the 
words — “ so, by heaven’s mercy, shall you soon 
be. L.” 

“ L,” he cried, “ L. It is she ! It is she ! She 
is safe.” And again he whispered fervently, 
“Thank God.” 

Eecognising that this was the conclusion of a 
message, the beginning of which was undoubt- 
edly contained in the other peach, he lost no in- 
stant in mastering the contents of that also. 
And, an instant later, the whole of that message 
lay complete before his eyes ; the two pieces of 
paper, so skillfully inserted, forming the sentence : 
“ I seek you. I am at liberty ; so, by heaven’s 
mercy, shall you soon be. L.” 

Yet as he read the words, as again and again 
he thanked his Maker for His mercies to Lu- 


216 


THE YEAR ONE 


cienne, there stole over his heart a sudden, chill, 
an awful foreboding of evil to come. 

“ She is free,” he muttered — nay, almost gasped. 
“ She is free — and she is coming here. Here ! to 
this earthly hell, to this place which Madame de 
Rochefeuille said only too truly would ere long 
be a shambles. For I, too, have heard rumours 
— whispers. I, too, know, since the very glances 
of the warders, of the soldiers, as well as their 
mutterings, might well warn any but the deaf 
and dumb that something awful is to happen. I 
know that, ere long, the most dreadful of all 
freedoms will be ours.” 

“ And she is coming here,” he continued : 
“ here ! To me. She who has once found real 
freedom in some strange way ; she who has once 
escaped. Oh ! God,” he cried, as now he threw 
himself upon his knees by his wretched bed, 
“ prevent it, prevent it, I beseech Thee. Keep 
her away in Thy mercy from this place of 
doom.” 

Yet, as he prayed, the place of doom was more 
like the house of a band of demoniacs than aught 
else. From the windows which looked on to, 
and across, the yard, shrill-tongued women were 
shrieking ribaldries to others, men were howling 
loathsome and repulsive songs ; jeers and curses 
and blasphemous mockeries were being shouted 
from the cachots where, in several instances, a 
dozen were confined together ; the mighty pan- 
demonium of the maddened, doomed creatures 


A MESSAGE 


217 


was beginning. The victims of the revolution, 
in their determination to die game, were turning 
their last days, or weeks, on earth into a mad- 
dened infernal revel which the inhabitants of 
satan’s capital might well have envied. 


CHAPTER XIX 


UPON THE TRACK 

The rumour of which the Duchess de Roche- 
feuille had spoken, of which George Hope had 
also heard some muttered fragments in the 
prison, and which had been even more plainly 
conveyed to Lucienne’s affrighted ears by the 
hints and suggestions of those women of the 
people whom she encountered in the garden of 
the Tuileries, was spreading rapidly over all 
Paris now and gaining strength as it did so. 

In the prisons, not only of La Force, but of 
L’Abbaye, La Conciergerie, La Bourbe (or Port 
Libre), St. Lazare, St. Pelagie and a dozen others, 
as well as in countless maisons d' arret and houses 
of detention outside Paris, the reports that some- 
thing dreadful was intended had taken firm 
hold of the minds of the wretched creatures 
with whom those prisons were stuffed full. For 
these reports, muttered under the breath, hinted 
that, should the Prussians and royalist emigres 
advance towards Paris, every aristocrat would 
be put to death — including the members of the 
royal family now prisoners in the temple ; num- 
berless flying voices whispered in a subdued tone 
218 


UPON THE TEACK 


210 


that, should those troops ever arrive in Paris 
they would, nevertheless, be unable to set free 
the inhabitants of the prisons for the good and 
sufficient reason that a terrible release would by 
that time have been accorded them. They would 
find the prisons no longer filled to overflowing 
but — empty ! These rumours, these hints, were 
brought in by those who, at this period, were 
allowed to visit their friends and relatives daily 
(and allowed to do so freely in the hope that con- 
versations dangerous to the republic might be 
overheard and, thereby, furnish the government 
with fresh victims) ; by sons and daughters, 
wives and servants and friends; by those who 
brought delicacies to the detenus and by those 
who in many cases came to gamble and drink 
with them. 

Meanwhile, however, there were others who 
came into the prisons, not as visitors but — as 
still existing records testify — as willing prisoners. 
These were, in many cases, malefactors who ob- 
tained incarceration with a view of assisting in 
the release of many of their brother ruffians 
when the expected riots should break out, as well 
as of obtaining plunder from those who should 
become victims. In other cases, more malefactors 
were paid by the miscalled government to allow 
themselves to be incarcerated so that they might 
be on the spot to mingle with the already 
appointed executioners at any time required. 
These wretches received a daily wage of twenty- 


220 


THE YEAR ONE 


four livres par tete et par your' and received it 
as payment of services to be rendered to the 
Legislative Assembly in contending against a 
great conspiracy believed to be forming. There 
was indeed a great conspiracy forming, but it 
was by, and not against, the government and 
aimed by that government at countless innocent 
and inoffensive victims in their hands, most of 
whom were either helpless women or old and 
defenceless priests. 

With the entry of these ruffians into the 
prisons during the last few days of August, it 
would in truth have been strange if those already 
detained had not found good reason to be sus- 
picious of what was impending. For many of 
these creatures were free enough in their conver- 
sation — there was no reason why they should not 
be, since their trembling listeners were powerless 
— and they possessed also far more liberty than 
was allowed to all others in those prisons, while 
they also possessed opportunities of being al- 
most perpetually intoxicated, and they always 
addressed Manuel 1 2 who at this time was super- 


1 As written on several listes d J enlargement of the period and 
still to be seen at the Biblioth4que Nationale, Paris. 

2 Pierre Louis Manuel was not the greatest ruffian of the As- 
sembly (of which he was secretary) in spite of the massacres of 
September being attributed principally to him. It has been 
thought that he would have saved the Princesse de Lamballe if 
possible, and he endeavoured to save Louis XVI. and Marie 
Antoinette from the Revolutionary Tribunal. He was himself 
guillotined in November, 1793. 


UPON THE TRACK 221 

intendent of the prisons of Paris, with great 
familiarity. 

Outside — out in the streets, in the theatres, in 
the restaurants — where rich men and aristocrats 
ate their meals disguised as poor men and then ate 
only in the most frugal manner for fear of being 
suspected of wealth — to possess which was the 
next greatest crime to being highborn — those 
rumours spread themselves as also they did in 
the wine shops, the gargotes , the filthy alleys of 
St. (no longer Saint now) Antoine, the old streets 
of the Marais, and in the new and aristocratic 
streets round the Places Vendome and Louis 
XY., and the Palais Royal — (Palais d’Orleans) 
all of which were now, in a week’s time, to be 
known respectively as, the Place des Picques, the 
Place de la Revolution and the Palais d’Egalite. 

That they should reach the ears of Lucienne 
was of course certain — was indubitable. She 
was always outside in the streets and open 
places, always mixing with the mob — the filthy 
mass of proletarians which was generically com- 
prised in the words “The Nation!” — always 
talking to and picking up hints from the future 
venger esses and lecher esses, while eating in their 
haunts and sometimes even drinking in their 
wine shops, while having words of loathsome 
love whispered in her ears as well as fulsome 
compliments, and suffering street corner gallan- 
tries which caused her to shudder. She was 
always thus, now, as she trod the stones of the 


222 


THE YEAE ONE 


streets, her fair hair dyed a deep chestnut, her 
fair skin stained brown, her common dress pur- 
posely disordered, and her cap of liberty still 
stuck jauntily upon her head. In her pocket 
she carried a newspaper which often enough she 
would take out and glance at furtively, while 
smiling bitterly when alone ; it being a week-old 
copy of the Thermometre du Jour in which was 
briefly described the finding of the dead body of 
Lucienne Aubray, ci-devant Marquise d’Aubray 
de Brissac amongst a number of others near the 
foot of the statue of Louis Capet, ci-devant Louis 
Quinze. 

“ Always out ! ” said Agathe Verac to her one 
morning at this time — it was the morning of 
Sunday the second September — “ always out. 
God knows what will happen to you at last. I 
shudder to think. And at such a time as this ! 
when that monster, Danton, meditates some aw- 
ful attack upon all he considers to be in his path. 
Oh ! that the Comte de Mirabeau had lived. 
Then Danton would never have risen in his 
place.” 

“ I must go out,” Lucienne replied. “ I must. 
How else am I to learn things, to know what is 
doing, what is to be done ? How am I to save 
him ? ” 

“ How can you save him ? ” 

“ God knows ! And perhaps, at the last I 
shall not save him. Yet — yet — I will never 
cease in my endeavours. Oh ! Agathe ” — for 


UPON THE TRACK 


223 


now she addressed the other thus — “ if you did 
but know the friends I have made — the creatures 
who are my friends — the men who address me 
as Margot — ma petite Margot — ma belle Margot — 
ma mie — even mon amour — God ! — you would 
pity me. Yet — yet — it must be. If what is feared 
by us, hoped for by them, by my friends,” and 
she laughed hysterically as she spoke of her 
friends — “ they may help to save him.” 

“ Save him ! How can they — that canaille — 
save him ? ” 

“ They may do so. Listen, Agathe. Listen — 
and be merciful. There are two men who, if 
that comes which all say will come, are to meet 
me in — in La Force.” 

“ Meet you ! In La Force ! ” 

“ Yes. And these men are — oh ! — my lovers. 
Mes soupirants — mes pretendus — what you will. 
The lovers of Lucienne d’Aub — no ! no ! no ! 
What am I saying ! Of Margot, the girl of the 
people. The girl who has come to Paris to see 
the sights — to see the aristocrats guillotined. 
They began the work a week ago.” Again 
Lucienne laughed so hysterically that the tears 
sprang into the other woman’s eyes. 

“ How brave you are,” she whispered. “ How 
the old race asserts itself in you. Yet — yet — 
what can these creatures do for you ! What ! ” 

“ I have a scheme. A hope. Oh ! I have 
learnt much in my ramblings from my — lovers. 
You cannot think. And there are others, with 


224 : 


THE YEAB ONE 


whom, also, I have an understanding.” Then, 
suddenly, she said : “ Give me my money now ; 

everything that is mine. I may want it soon. 
To-day. To-night. I know not when.” 

“ All of it ! All you gave me to take care of ? ” 

“ Yes, all. I must have it.” 

“ But it is a fortune ! ” As, indeed, it was to a 
woman of Madame Yerac’s circumstances. 

“ What does that matter — against his life ! If 
it were fifty fortunes, if it were all that the 
d’Aubrays ever owned when they almost ruled a 
whole province, what would it matter; what 
would it count against that? His life! His 
salvation ! ” 

****** 

It was a golden summer afternoon — for sum- 
mer lingered late that fateful year — when 
Lucienne went forth once more into the streets 
after having wept on Madame Yerac’s bosom ere 
leaving her. After, also, the two women had 
folded each other to their hearts and sobbed 
together. 

“ I have learned to love you so in these three 
weeks,” Madame Yerac said through her tears, 
“ to love you so in spite of your being what you 
are, and I — only a humble shopkeeper.” 

“You are my friend,” Lucienne whispered. 
“My only friend excepting him. And I love 
you. God knows I should do so or be unworthy 
to exist.” 


UPON THE TRACK 


225 


“You are so brave yet so gentle,” Madame 
Verac continued — “Oh! that you a highborn 
lady should have to suffer so. Yet that is the 
lot of all of your rank now. God bless and pros- 
per you and him. And — and — madame — well ! — 
Lucienne, since you will have it so — if — if the 
chance should arise — if you could help my poor 
mistress, Madame de Rochefeuille, I beseech you 
to do so. She is old now and unhappy. If she 
might be spared ” 

“Trust me. If it can be it shall.” Where- 
upon Lucienne tore herself out of those protect- 
ing arms and so — sternly — determinately — went 
on her way. To what ! 

Up the street she went, past the Palais dTCgal- 
ite with, opposite to it, the blackened walls of 
the ci-devant king’s palace; on through street 
after street into all of which there poured the 
sunlight, and in all of which she encountered but 
few people. For this Sunday was no ordinary 
one ; there were no joyous crowds about and few 
people even at their windows ; indeed it seemed 
as though, in the poor quarter through which 
she was now passing, all must be asleep or had 
retired as though it were night. As perhaps 
they had done, well knowing that, when the 
night should come, they would have to be awake. 

All was very still, unusually still for a Parisian 
Sunday. As still as is the air before the thun- 
derstorm. As still as some of these very streets 
became at last, at the time when Fourquier- 


226 


THE YEAR ONE 


Tinville, public accuser and thousandfold mur- 
derer dreaded to go through them at night, be- 
cause he feared to see — as he afterwards said he 
often did see— white faces peering at him from 
out of doorways and round street corners and 
from behind trees ; white faces poised on equally 
white throats round which there ran always a 
thin red strip like a ribband, to which equally 
white fingers, gleaming out of the darkness of 
the night, were always pointing . 1 

Down these streets Lucienne went, observing 
signs that, owing to the scraps of knowledge she 
had obtained from her “ friends,” were easily to 
be understood. She understood why a bold- 
faced woman holding a window blind aside to 
peer out into the street, pointed with a hideous 
grin to the knife which she had ostentatiously 
thrust into her belt as she approached this quar- 
ter, and understood, as well, why an old man 
sitting asleep upon a doorstep opened his eyes as 
she passed by and whispered “ To-night ” while, 
at the same time, he also gazed with satisfaction 
at the thing at her w r aist. 

Then suddenly, as Lucienne went on, passing 
now a street out of which there branched on 
either side a number of alleys full of unspeakably 
miserable houses, there gradually dawned in her 

1 In a different form of romance, these terrors — or something 
like them — have been attributed to Robespierre. It was, how- 
ever, Fourqiuer-Tinville who experienced them — as he narrated 
to a friend before his trial. 


UPON THE TRACK 


227 


mind the knowledge that she was not the only 
woman who was following this route. She rec- 
ognised that from the time — almost indeed from 
the very moment when she had left Madame 
Verac’s house, another woman was walking in 
her steps. One who was dressed much as she 
was herself — in a poor common dress ; one who 
also wore the cap of liberty yet wore it pulled 
down closely over her brows and seemed as 
though she were not desirous of attracting at- 
tention. 

“ It is strange,’’ Lucienne thought, with some 
tinge of dawning apprehension, “ strange that 
there should be another woman who is pursuing 
identically the same road as I — the road from 
the Rue St. Honore to La Force. What does it 
mean ; is it in truth a coincidence or can it be 
that she is following, tracking me ? ” While, as 
she so pondered, there came a tremour to her 
heart. A tremour that was natural since, if she 
were followed, the fact meant one thing alone. 
It meant that, amongst all those with whom she 
had lately mixed, there was one woman at least 
who suspected her of not being what she pre- 
tended to be, and was therefore resolved to either 
prove, or remove, her doubts. 

“Yet there may be nothing in these fears,” 
she meditated as she pursued her way unhesitat- 
ingly, while determining that in no way would 
she either show that she recognised she was be- 
ing spied on or, even in recognising such to be 


228 


THE YEAR ONE 


the case, stood in any dread of her pursuer. Yet, 
all the same, she resolved to put her doubts to 
the test and to learn, if possible, whether the tall 
dark woman behind was known to her, and 
whether she was one with whom she had hith- 
erto come into contact. 

Acting, therefore, upon this determination, 
Lucienne set about taking steps to discover who 
this woman might be and, at the same time, 
should she prove to be one of those with whom 
she had lately been thrown, to avoid her. To 
avoid her for another hour or hour and a half at 
least, by which time, if she had succeeded in do- 
ing so, she would be within the walls of La 
Force. 

“ After which,” she murmured, “ what matters 
what she knows or suspects! I shall be with 
him, I shall have saved him or perished with 
him. Nothing will matter if I can but reach the 
prison. Nothing! We shall be together for 
good or evil. I shall have done some little 
thing in return for what he has done for me.” 

With every instinct sharpened therefore ; with 
a firm determination to let no action on this 
woman’s part interfere with that which she had 
set herself to do since she had learnt beyond all 
doubt from Madame Yerac, as well as from other 
sources — by questions asked of warders drinking 
outside La Force, of visitors quitting the place at 
four o’clock, and, once, of a released prisoner 
whom she had seen put outside the door while 


UPON THE TKACK 


229 


she was standing regarding the place in one of 
her ceaseless vigils — she now proceeded to dis- 
cover who this other woman might be. Nor was 
it difficult to do. The short street, at one end of 
which she now was, while the woman behind her 
was almost at the other, was traversed by another 
running at right and left angles : if she could en- 
ter the latter and then pass swiftly down one of 
the innumerable alleys with which all the streets 
hereabouts were honeycombed, her object would 
be attained. Or, if she could not see who that 
woman was, she would at least have avoided her ; 
she might continue on her way without interrup- 
tion. 

“While,” Lucienne thought to herself, “if 
danger threatens, if aught arises to prevent me 
from doing that which I have resolved on, then 
there is this,” and, as she thus thought, her fin- 
gers touching lightly the hilt of the rude knife she 
carried at her side. “ Margot,” she whispered, 
“ the girl who has become one of the people, who 
has seen blood shed and has yet to see more, is a 
different woman from the dead and gone Mar- 
quise d’Aubray de Bricourt.” While as she 
spoke, she laughed again as she had laughed be- 
fore, as she had laughed often enough of late, 
with the wretches with whom she had for three 
weeks been herding, and as she had done when 
speaking of her new-found “ friends ” to Madame 
Yerac. A laugh, bitter, saturnine and cynical — 
almost, one might have said, a laugh wrung from 


230 


THE YEAH ONE 


a broken, tortured heart. Yet one that would 
have caused the tears to rise to the eyes of any 
one who had ever known the girl in her happier 
and more tranquil days, and now saw her in the 
bitterness of her desolation and self-abandonment. 

Turning the corner of the cross street, Lucienne 
saw with a swift glance — the same backward 
glance which the hare throws back upon the 
hound in its tracks — that the woman behind was 
quickening her pace, that she was now following 
her rapidly, and evidently in fear that she would 
miss her quarry at the street corner. As was the 
case, for, by that street corner, there opened an 
alley, a ruelle y while across the narrow roadway 
was still another alley. Then calculating the 
time she had at her disposal, feeling sure that she 
could reach that further alley — which would be 
less suspected by the tracker than the one close 
at hand — Lucienne ran swiftly across the road 
and into it, and proceeding on down the narrow 
way until she found refuge behind a huge butt of 
water that almost blocked the passage. Then, a 
moment later, she saw the other woman appear 
in the street and, after gazing up and down it, 
stand hesitating and bewildered as though unable 
to comprehend what had become of the object of 
her pursuit. 

As this happened, the woman turned her head 
in the direction of Lucienne, while the latter, see- 
ing the other’s face quite plainly, gave a gasp — 
almost, indeed, a moan, and muttered, 


UPON THE TRACKS 


231 


“ She here in Paris ! She, Adele Satigny ! 
And recognising, tracking me. My God ! I 
must avoid her, I must escape from her in some 
way. Or, if I cannot do that — then — then — I 
must summon one of my new-found friends — one 
of my lovers ! — to my assistance. It is in the 
next street I have to meet Isidore Dubroc. If he 
is there, he will save me. As he must — since I 
am resolved that nothing — not even her life shall 
stand in the way of my reaching La Force now.” 


CHAPTER XX 


PRISON WALLS 

Dangerous as was the position of Lucienne 
at this time, since she could not doubt that the 
moment Adele Satigny was face to face with her 
she would be denounced as an aristocrat in dis- 
guise (was she not the bar which stood between 
her and all her hopes of becoming the wife of the 
man who had once promised to make an honest 
woman of her?) that danger was, nevertheless, 
to be avoided. 

For, ere Adele Satigny could cross the road 
and peer down, or, perhaps, even penetrate into 
the alley to which Lucienne had fled — as a mo- 
ment before she had peered down the alley on 
the side of the street she was still on, there came 
an interruption that not only served to form a 
barrier between Lucienne d’Aubray and her im- 
placable and hitherto unsuccessful rival, but also 
to disturb the quiet and slumber — the assumed 
quiet and slumber — of all the denizens of the 
neighbourhood. 

Along the street there marched at this moment a 
crowd of half-drunken and wholly frenzied tatter- 
demalions, male and female, all of whom were 
232 


PRISON WALLS 


233 


howling, singing, gesticulating and sometimes 
dancing singly or together, while amongst them 
there walked a man not ill-looking, one who was 
soberly yet well dressed ; a man who carried in his 
hand something which to Lucienne had no sig- 
nificance. Something long, bright and glitter- 
ing, shaped more like a saw than aught else, it 
being broader at one end than the other. A 
thing polished as brightly as a mirror and, conse- 
quently, reflecting the beams of the afternoon 
sun as they glinted upon it, so that it seemed to 
flash rays of fire all around. 

But, if Lucienne did not know what that glit- 
tering thing was, if its strange shape conveyed 
nothing to her mind as, from her position behind 
the water-butt, she looked forth, the cries and 
howls and exultations of the seething mass of 
filthy humanity which accompanied its progress 
were soon to do so. They did so, indeed, at 
once. 

“ Vive le coutelas ,” some cried, while at the 
same time they pirouetted about like demoniacs. 
“ Vive le rasoir des aristocrcctes ,” shrieked others, 
while still others jeered and hooted and called to 
the man who carried the thing (and whom they 
addressed as Sanson, as well as by the title of 
“Executor of High Works”) to be sure that the 
rasor made the aristocrats “ sneeze well into the 
sack ” and that he put their heads comfortably 
into the little window. But still the singing 
went on — the singing of a dozen different songs 


234 


THE YEAE ONE 


at a time. Some yelled a well-known and soon 
to be popular song “ Quand la Mer Rouge ap- 
parut ” and others chaunted a chorus ending : 

“ Fait tomber— ber — ber — 

Fait sauter — ter — ter — 

Fait tomber — Fait sauter 
La tete. 

Later, although at the moment she understood 
nothing and guessed very vaguely at what all 
this meant, Lucienne knew that Sanson, the exe- 
cutioner, was transporting the coutelas , or knife 
of the guillotine (which was always in his strict 
custody) from his house to the Place du Car- 
rousel, where, with some exceptions, it after- 
wards performed the greater part of its work. 
He was doing so on this occasion since, on that 
afternoon, at five o’clock, there was more than 
one aristocrat to be made to “sneeze into the 
basket.” The guillotine was about to reap its 
full harvest . 1 

But, fascinated as Lucienne was by this, at 
present, incomprehensible spectacle — a spectacle 
which, she reflected, she should have had some 
suggestion of from those among whom she had 
forced herself to move and exist of late — she 
knew that she must not tarry. In a few mo- 
ments the people, the guards and accompanists 

1 Two executions fixed for that afternoon were postponed. 
There was other business on hand. Of the two condemned 
men one managed to escape that night from La Force, the other 
was executed some weeks later. 


PRISON WALLS 


235 


of that hateful polished thing, would have passed 
on, and she could not doubt that, when they had 
done so, Adele Satigny would still be there, 
across the road, ready to continue her search for 
her and to waylay her even if powerless to cause 
her to be arrested. And time was going on — it 
was three o’clock now — in another hour there 
would be no admittance to La Force. La Force 
into which she had vowed she would obtain en- 
trance, in which she would contrive by the help 
of some of her friends to remain hidden till it 
was too late to get out : from which she would 
never come forth unless George Hope came with 
her, free and saved. She must go on. She must 
run no risks. 

At the end of the ruelle there was, as she could 
see, another opening, an exit, and now — keeping 
close to one side of it so that still the bulging 
butt should screen her somewhat from the woman 
who would soon be at the entrance through which 
she had come herself — she went towards it. And 
she went fearlessly too,, while knowing that, if it 
were not for the cap and scarf she wore and the 
knife in her belt, she would never have got to 
the end alive. For, lurking behind blinds — in 
many cases behind dirty, discoloured newspapers 
which served for blinds — were those who were 
on the alert and who, hearing even her light 
footfall, were prompt and quick to make inspec- 
tion. Hateful faces came to the windows, others 
protruded from half -open doors, eyes glistened, 


236 


THE YEAH ONE 


or sometimes glared dimly, from soddened faces 
behind curtains. Y et Lucienne’s dishevelled dress 
— the dress taken from that dead woman who, as 
the ci-devant Marquise d’ Aubray de Bricourt had 
been flung into the Seine since there was at that 
moment no cemetery for Les Supplicies — as well 
as her knife and her red cap, saved her from 
molestation. The more especially did they do 
so because, although it was well known that 
countless aristocrats were in Paris disguised as 
though of the people, it was also known that 
they never penetrated into this neighbourhood — 
that of St. Antoine. 

So she went on, firm and determined and re- 
solved to escape from Adele Satigny and, through 
that firmness and determination, she was enabled 
to do so. Unfalteringly, unhesitatingly, she 
passed through the alley, never looking back 
once until she had reached the end, when, with 
a hasty glance behind, she saw that her enemy 
was not yet at the further entrance. She had 
avoided, escaped from her ! 

Down two more streets well known to Luci- 
enne through her constant visits to the outside 
of La Force — visits made sometimes in the broad 
daylight and sometimes during the depths of the 
summer nights, in the hopes of gleaning intelli- 
gence as to what was going on within : — drawing 
near next, to a closed church from which the bell 
had been removed and in front of which a tree 
of liberty had been thrust into the earth — and — 


PRISON WALLS 


237 


then — in an instant, a man had met her, he hav- 
ing come swiftly out from a narrow passage run- 
ning between two houses. 

“ Tiens ! Margot ,” he said, “ you are late. 
What has kept you so long, mignonne f ” while, 
as he spoke, he made a motion with his arms as 
though he would enfold her in his embrace. A 
motion which she was, however, enabled to avoid 
with a twist and a turn, while accompanying the 
action by a slight laugh. 

“You are always so coy,” the man grumbled, 
as he looked hungrily at her with his red eyes. 
“ So — so — difficile. Well ! later, you will be all 
mine. Yet, what is the matter with you ? You 
are agitated. Have you been coquetting with 
any others on the road ? ” 

“ Nay ; can you think that ! But, Isidore — 
there was a crowd passing down a street — and — 
and — Sanson,” recalling the name, “ was among 
them with — with ” 

“ The rasoir ! Ha, yes. There are some aris- 
tocrats to be seen to this afternoon. It works 
well, does our new toy. Our little bastringue ! 
See now, mon amour — one of these days and 
soon, too, we will make a little fete and go see 
her at work. They say she will be the great 
spectacle of high days and holidays. Loulou of 
our section sold two hundred packets of bonbons 
in the crowd when she began her work in the 
Place de Greve, and they talk of chairs being let 
out to see the fun. We will have two chairs 


238 THE YEAR ONE 

next time and two packets of bonbons. Didble ! 
we will.” 

“We will!” cried Lucienne. “We will!” 
though as she spoke, she felt an impulse to drag 
her knife forth and thrust it into her companion’s 
heart. “We will, mon ami . Yet, do not forget. 
We have first to get rich. I have to earn the 
money for my dot. To do that I must be in La 
Force to-night.” 

“ Oh ! you shall be there, never fear. I have 
arranged all. You will be admitted by — but 
stay, let us consider again. First, how much is 
this money you are to get — we are to get ? ” 

“There is,” replied Lucienne, even while she 
seemed to be making some mental additions, 
though in absolute fact she was going over once 
more in her mind how much money she could 
afford to spare, “there is for this brigand, this 
scelerat and forger of false assignats ” 

“Beeler at! Forger!” Tiens! amie , ’tis no 
bad trade, and he seems to have prospered since 
his friends can bribe you so well to get him out. 
How much is’t ? Say again.” 

“ Ten thousand livres ! ” 

“ Ten thousand. Didble ! that is a sum. Yet 
— yet — the assignats are now low in value. 
Soon they will be lower. Even now twenty 
livres in assignats are worth but ten in coin.” 1 

1 A year later the value of these assignats was almost nil. 
Three thousand nine hundred and fifty francs, worth were then 
given for a gold louis. The price of an ordinary course in a 


PRISON WALLS 239 

“ This sum is not in assignats but in gold. In 
louis d’ors.” 

“ Dieu ! ” exclaimed the ruffian, changing his 
deity in his astonishment. “That is different. 
That is worth having ! He is safe. Saved ! 
Yet — yet — where is this money ? How are we 
to be paid, cherie f ” 

“We are to be paid when we are safe outside 
the prison. He has it on him.” 

“ How do you know that ? ” 

“It has been conveyed to him and — and — he 
will give it to me and I to you. Take care of it, 
or—” bracing herself to utter the loathsome 
words — “ there will be nothing to make a home 
for us.” 

“Be sure I will take care of it! Ten thou- 
sand livres in gold ! Take care of it ! Oh ! 
never fear. Why ! Why ! Danton has not so 
much. Yet,” the fellow said, his caution and 
cunning aroused as well as his cupidity, “yet, 
suppose when we have got him out, he will not 
pay or has not got it? How then? We have 
saved him for nothing. How then, I say ? ” 

“Then — ” and again Lucienne braced her- 
self, steeled herself, while inwardly uttering a 
prayer to God to pardon her for even having to 
act, to utter, such things — “ then — thrust him in 
again. Let him find his fate.” 

The heavy hand of the creature who thought 

cab was 600 francs in assignats. A fowl cost the same thing 
and a bottle of poor wine 300. 


240 


THE YEAR ONE 


that now he was made for life — that ere long 
he would own both a fortune and a handsome 
wife — fell in heavy approval on her shoulder, his 
great bear-like arms seized her ere she could 
evade him and strained her to his breast — she 
thanked God he did not kiss her ! — while he mut- 
tered, “ I have found the right woman for me. 

The woman for my wife — the mother of my ” 

“ Let us go,” gasped Lucienne, feeling sick, 
physically sick as those feel who have been half 
stunned by a blow or nauseated with some foul 
odour; “let us go. The hour for closing the 
doors is at hand. Come ! Ten thousand livres in 
gold. We cannot afford to lose them. We can- 
not. Ten thousand livres — in — gold. It is a for- 
tune for us.” 

“Come, then. We will enter by the Rue du 
Roi de Sicile. Jacques will be there. He will 
let you in. With luck you may both be out by 
dawn — or, at worst, by to-morrow.” 

“ Is it sure to begin to-night ? ” 

“ It is sure. Danton has given Santerre the 
order.” 

“ What,” asked Lucienne with still upon her 
that feeling of deathly sickness and with, also, a 
sensation of warm faintness as well as a tremour 
in all her limbs. “What shall I do to-night? 
Where can I keep myself until the time comes ? ” 
“ There is one large room where many women 
— well ! — of our sort — are together. They will 
escape. We — we — have arranged that. They 


PRISON WALLS 


241 


are no aristocrats. You can stay with them 
since that room is not locked. Or you can be 
with Jules. He has always drink with him and 
he will not sleep to-night.” 

“Nor I,” whispered Lucienne. 

They were now close to the Rue du Roi de 
Sicile, an old, dirty place full of houses which 
once, a hundred years ago, had been inhabited by 
some of the nobility, hut which were now on one 
side, shops of the lowest kind; while, on the 
other side, ran those houses of which the Prison 
de la grande Force was composed. For, origi- 
nally, nothing more than a small maison d'wrret, 
the gaol had gradually appropriated one squalid 
building after another, not only in this street but 
also in the so-called Rue des Ballets, de St. An- 
toine, Culture and Pavee, so that in fact the 
prison occupied nearly a whole square and pos- 
sessed three or four entrances and exits. 

At the door of No. 2 of the Rue du Roi de 
Sicile, as the words inscribed under a window 
showed it to be, they stopped, while Isidore Du- 
broc tapped lightly on the old and iron bound 
panels. Then, a moment later, there appeared 
a face at the little niche let into it — a face, 
blotched as Dubroc’s was and with, if such were 
possible, a more evil look upon it than there was 
upon the face of the former. 

“ Have you brought her ? ” the owner of that 
face whispered. “ Is she here ? ” 

“Ay, she is here. Come, Margot,” Dubroc 


242 THE YEAE ONE 

said. “Come, go on with it now. Are you 
ready ? ” 

“Yes, I am ready,” Lucienne replied, rising 
from a bench by the door on to which she had 
sunk overcome, once more, with that feeling of 
deathly faintness which she had not been able to 
shake off since it first attacked her. “ Yes. Let 
me go in.” 

“ One kiss,” whispered Dubroc, “ one — no ! not 
one ? Not when you think ? ” 

“ Not now,” Lucienne gasped. “ Not now. 
You know how coy I am — you know. Ah ! let 
me go in. The money, Isidore, think of that. 
Let me earn it — for — for — our future.” 

“Let her in,” muttered Dubroc to the man 
who was still gazing at Lucienne and her com- 
panion through the bars of the wicket, “ let her 
in. She is strong and brave though she appears 
so timid. She will go through with it. And 
then — then — well, you know what there is for 
your share, Jules. And I like her none the less 
that she is modest. Few of our Paris gailliardes 
resemble her. Open the door, Jules.” 

So the door opened slowly to the extent of 
a foot, while creaking rustily, hoarsely, on its 
hinges : it opened and Lucienne went in as the 
man, Jules, held out his hand as though to guide 
her into the noisome, loathsome place. She went 
in leaving behind her the brightness of the Sep- 
tember afternoon and all the warmth of the late 
summer day ; into this prison, reeking of damp, 


PKISON WALLS 


243 


full of gloom and of darkness illuminated only 
by a few rays of sun that streamed through the 
wicket bars. 

Yet, even as she did so, her faintness seemed 
to leave her suddenly ; she felt strong and brave 
again and nerved to encounter the horrors that 
she knew were close at hand. 

“ For I am near him at last,” she whispered to 
herself. “ In the same place with him. W e are 
together once more.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


“she is no marquise” 

The ancient Hotel de Bricourt stood, as it had 
done for a century and a half, at the corner of 
two streets in the old Quartier St. Germain. 
Two centuries before that, it had been sur- 
rounded by fields and orchards ; surrounded, too, 
by a moat or fosse, and possessing barbican, 
drawbridge and bailey-wall, with parapet and 
crenellated embattlements. But all these had 
long since disappeared, so, too, had the fields 
and orchards, their place being now covered 
with streets : the bailey- wall had been replaced 
by the ordinary wall which usually surrounded 
the town house of a nobleman or gentleman in 
the reign of Louis XV., though even that had 
of late undergone some startling changes. For, 
where once had stood, on either side the gate- 
way, the open-mouthed dragons (which were the 
cognisance of the d’Aubrays de Bricourt) hold- 
ing in their right paws a battle-axe, there were 
placed now two statues of liberty, while, on the 
blank surface of the white wall which ten years 
ago had besen kept scrupulously clean, were 
painted the words, Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite. 

244 


“ SHE IS HO MAKQUISE ” 


245 


For was not the present Aubray (son of the ex- 
sutler who had been deemed Jew or Turk by 
the scoffers of Belle-Isle’s army) a friend of the 
people, one of them, an espouser of civisme , a 
patriot ! 

Yet, had any seen the man on the night of 
this Sunday, the 2d of September, 1792, they 
would scarcely have thought that he was deriv- 
ing much satisfaction from either his friendship 
to the people or his patriotism. For he looked 
as though his civisme scarcely agreed with him 
and as if, also, his espousal of the great and 
noble sentiments now painted on his hotel walls 
had brought no more comfort, if as much, than 
his original appropriation of rank and position 
had done. 

On this night he did not sit in the great salon 
(which had been constructed, or altered from, a 
great hall in which many d’ Aubray s had, three 
hundred years before, sat clad in satins and furs) 
but, instead, in a garret in the old mansion ; he 
sat also in darkness unillumined by taper or 
candle, and he was clad in the livery, or rather 
the clothes (since livery existed no longer) of un 
“ officieux” this being the word which, in the 
new order of things had replaced that of “ serv- 
ant.” For the illustrious ci-devant Marquis had 
grave fears for his safety and his neck now, and 
at the present moment he strongly suspected that 
he had been denounced to the Assembly as one 
who was not to be trusted as well as one in whom 


246 


THE YEAR ONE 


there remained still the old taint of aristocrat 
sentiments. 

How such a thing as this should have come 
about he could in no way decide, since, as he 
had more than once whispered to himself with 
sardonic, or, perhaps, as it should more truth- 
fully be said, with unconscious, humour : “ Who 
that knows me can suppose I possess any aristo- 
crat tendencies whatever ? ” while, probably with 
a desire to juggle with himself, he had added 
the words “ at least of late.” 

Yet, all the same, the thing had been done — 
the denunciation had been made in a surrepti- 
tious under-handed way, though fortunately for 
him it had more or less failed in its intended 
effects. The statement sent anonymously, to the 
Syndic of Rennes, reached that official’s hands in 
safety, but, since he happened to be considerably 
in debt to the ci-devant Marquis, he contented 
himself with giving that gentleman timely warn- 
ing that he stood in a fair way of becoming a 
suspect. Probably he would not have done so 
in ordinary circumstances, since, at this period, 
the easiest way of being relieved of an indebted- 
ness was to destroy one’s creditor, but, in this 
case, the Syndic hoped for still further favours 
from his obliging friend and, even in his unculti- 
vated mind, there hovered some French version 
of the parable which deals with a goose that can 
lay golden eggs. 

The warning was, however, sufficient ; it was 


“ SHE IS NO MARQUISE ” 


247 


enough to cause the recipient of it to absent him- 
self from the neighbourhood of Bricourt for a 
little while and to betake himself to Paris clad 
in the garments of a peasant and, when there, to 
hide himself in the great town house of the fam- 
ily whose name and rank, as well as their posses- 
sions, he had appropriated. 

“ Yet,” he muttered to himself now, as he sat 
in the darkness of the garret and listened to 
every sound that arose from the street below, 
not knowing what any such sound might por- 
tend, “yet I have but left one danger for an- 
other. I could swear I saw La For§t in the 
street last night and that, which is worse, he 
saw me— disguised. And, though I have no in- 
tention of ever joining the ranks of the aristoc- 
racy again, La Foret — who hates them all — will 
he sure to imagine that I cherish such ideas ; that 
I am backsliding. La Foret! the excellent no- 
tary who, before now, has been known to say 
that I drove my wife to a doom which would 
better have befitted me. Curse him ! 

“ Then, too,” he went on, “ that scoundrel Nes- 
mond saw me enter the diligence at Dreux. 
Nesmond, who always wanted Adele for himself 
— where can the woman be lingering all these 
hours ! — and has been known to say that when I 
have gone the way of all disguised aristocrats 
she will be his. And he not only saw me there 
but here, in Paris, when it drew up at the bar- 
rier. I do believe he followed it and me after- 


248 


THE YEAR ONE 


wards. Dieu ! if, after all, I an honest follower 
of the Jacobins should be denounced as an aristo- 
crat. That would be terrible. Terrible. I must 
do something to make myself safe. Something. 
Perhaps if I saw Robespierre — he is the coming 
man they say, and will outstrip Marat and Dan- 
ton yet — I might indeed do something. There 
are still some of the old nobility of Brittany to 

be denounced Ha ! ” he broke off to exclaim, 

“ there is her step. She is coming up the stairs. 
My future wife is coming ! ” and he laughed 
lightly to himself, “ the remplagant of my poor 
Lucienne. Well, nous verrons ! ” 

The footsteps which his quick ears had caught 
drew nearer even as he finished his agreeable 
soliloquy : they were close at hand now ; a mo- 
ment later and the latch of the garret door was 
lifted and Adele Satigny’s voice asked, “Jean, 
are you here ? ” 

“Yes, I am here. I have not left this room 
since you went away. Well! what is doing in 
Paris ? And — and — have you any confirmation 
of Lucienne’s death ? ” 

“ Confirmation ! What confirmation can I 
have ? Of a certainty she is dead. And, there- 
fore, you are free.” 

“ Free ! Am I free ? I must know that for 
sure. Of late there have been many mistakes 
made. The Yicomtesse de Balbigny’s sister was 
arrested in her place at Evreux but a month ago, 
tried and ” 


“ SHE IS HO MARQUISE ” 


249 


“ Bah ! Have you not seen the papers ? All 
of them. le Moniteur , Le Thermometre du 
Jour , IS Ami du Peujple. Each tell the same 
tale. Was not she in that waggon, was not her 
Acte dS accusation found on her. And — and — 
have I not spoken to those who saw her dead 
body cast into the Seine ? What more do you 
want ? ” 

“ I want to be sure. I want ” 

“ To play me false again, perhaps ! ” the woman 
almost snarled, as her companion could very well 
judge by her voice. “ To marry another aristo- 
crat, perhaps ! Is that it ? There is one I have 
heard of at Hantes on whom you begin to cast en- 
vious eyes ” 

“Adele! Adele! How can you speak so? 
Grand Dieu ! have I not had enough with one 
aristocratic wife ? A woman who scorned me, 
who ran away from me and openly announced 
that it was from me and not from France that 
she so ran. Ho ! I have indeed had enough of 
aristocracy. But, even though she be dead, we 
could not marry now. It would not be becom- 
ing, not according to left convenances. One must 
mourn a little while for decency’s sake, one 
must ” 

“At least the promise, your promise, can be 
given.” 

“ It shall be. It is.” 

“And it must be in writing. I will be de- 
ceived no more. Give me your promise in writ- 


250 


THE YEAR ORE 


ing that in six months, if this other woman, this 
hateful aristocrat, is never seen again, you will 
make me your wife and I am content. But not 
otherwise. For, God knows, I have waited long 
enough.” 

“Yes. Yes. I will — to-morrow — when I can 
see to write. Be satisfied. How, tell me, I am 
dying to know, what is doing in Paris? Tell 
me. All seems so quiet, there is such a hush 
over the city that it appals me.” 

What Adele Satigny did tell this man as they 
sat there in the darkness was not, at least, the 
discovery which she had that day made. Hot 
the discovery that his wife was alive and had, 
in some mysterious way, become one of the 
mob; that she was, indeed, mixing freely with 
them. 

That discovery, which had struck like a knife 
to her heart, she had determined never to reveal 
and the more especially was she resolved not to 
do so since she had also discovered something 
more than the fact that Lucienne was alive and 
free. For, although she had lost sight of the 
girl from the moment when the mob of savages 
which accompanied Sanson as he carried the 
guillotine’s knife from the Place de Greve to the 
Place du Carrousel passed by, she had, all un- 
known to Lucienne, come upon her again at the 
very moment when she met Isidore Dubroc. In 
her madness and rage at having missed her prey 
through the intervention of that mob, Adele 


“ SHE IS HO MARQUISE ” 


251 


Satigny had, after the crowd was gone, walked 
swiftly on in the direction which she supposed 
the other woman was following, while glinting 
her eyes up and down every street, every alley 
and passage in which she thought there was a 
chance of obtaining a glimpse of her. And by 
good luck, as she considered, she had stumbled 
on her again, she had seen her while unseen her- 
self, for, even as she turned the corner of a 
street out of which opened the place wherein 
stood the half demolished church, she observed 
Lucienne in conversation with Dubroc. 

That she should be struck almost giddy with 
astonishment at what she perceived was natural. 
It was impossible she should not be so struck on 
observing that the man in conversation with Lu- 
cienne was an undoubted member of the lower 
classes — that there could be no doubt of such be- 
ing the case. At first, however, as she peered 
at those two from out of a stoop behind which 
she had hidden herself (the stoop of a house 
which in days gone by had belonged to a rich 
nobleman but was now let out in tenements) she 
could hardly believe her eyes, and imagined that 
this man was absolutely an aristocrat disguised 
as Lucienne was disguised, and for the same rea- 
sons. But, gradually, Dubroc’s vulgar actions, 
the accolade on his companion’s shoulder, his at- 
tempt to kiss his companion in the open street, 
even the tones of his rough voice as they occa- 
sionally reached the listener’s ears, were sufficient 


252 


THE YEAR ONE 


to convince her. She had seen enough of the 
aristocracy and jpetite-noblesse of Brittany, at 
least, to know that this fellow was no gentleman 
masquerading for safety’s sake in the garb of 
the lowest classes. 

Therefore, this second discovery, following 
hard upon the first which she had made some 
three days before (since which time she had 
never lost sight of Lucienne or the house of 
Madame Verac) that her hated rival, and dis- 
possessor of all that she had long aspired to, was 
still alive, struck her with amazement. An 
amazement that was to be still further increased 
when, after following like a sleuthhound in the 
steps of Dubroc and Lucienne, she saw them 
draw near to the entrance of the Rue du Roi de 
Sicile and then, to cap all, saw Lucienne received 
into the prison of La Force, while her companion 
strode away a moment or so later humming to. 
himself. 

“What does it mean?” she muttered, while 
thoroughly mystified. “ What ? That she should 
be alive I can comprehend, though how it has 
happened is nothing less than marvellous after 
the news these papers all contained as to her 
being found dead with the Acte <P accusation in 
her pocket. But — as to the rest ! Her intimacy 
with that malotru , and her entry into that place 
which is beyond all doubt a prison. The sentinel 
in the street, the barred windows, the heavily 
clamped doors, all tell that,” 


“ SHE IS HO MARQUISE ” 


253 


Still almost maddened with excitement at the 
discoveries, the inexplicable discoveries which 
she had made of late — and had made, too, at the 
very moment when she had thought that, at last, 
the woman who had been for so long a stumbling- 
block to her was swept out of the way — she 
turned upon her heel while resolving that, even 
as she had watched the house in the Rue St. 
Honore, so she would watch this prison now. 
She would never lose sight of Lucienne, she 
swore, till she had denounced her for what she 
truly was, and had finally removed her from her 
path forever. 

As she did turn on her heel after this de- 
termination, while intending, however, to go no 
further away than any spot where she could keep 
her eyes upon the door by which Lucienne had 
entered, she heard a step behind her and, on 
glancing round, saw that the man who had 
parted from Lucienne was close by her side. 
And then, in a moment, her curiosity, as well as 
some other and deeper feeling within her, some 
feeling of black and bitter hatred against the 
woman who had so long thwarted her, prompted 
her to a sudden determination. The determina- 
tion that she would speak, would question, this 
man. She was shrewd enough, she thought, to 
be able to throw dust in his eyes, to obtain from 
him some knowledge as to Lucienne’s actions 
without betraying herself. 

“Citizen,” she said, therefore, addressing Isi- 


254 


THE YEAR ONE 


dore Dubroc as his quicker pace brought him 
level with her. “ Citizen, that is but a poor 
place for a young girl to enter, and especially 
for one who belongs to us and not to the aristoc- 
racy. Is it not ? ” 

“ She will come to no harm there, citizeness,” 
Dubroc replied, while looking down at her. 
“None. I have no fear.” Then he said sud- 
denly, “ Citizeness, to which section do you 
belong ? ” 

“ Oh ! I — I To which section do I be- 
long ! ” Adele Satigny repeated, indeed stam- 
mered. For the question took her at a disad- 
vantage, since she had not been long enough in 
Paris to know anything about the different quar- 
ters, or sections, of the city. 

“ Oh, I — I am but fresh come to Paris from 
the provinces to see the sights. I — I — am almost 
a stranger here.” 

“ Hein ! That is remarkable,” the man said, 
looking down at her with a look of suspicion in 
his eyes, since he remembered that Lucienne had 
also recently come to Paris from the provinces 
to see the sights. “ Truly remarkable. It is the 
same with her. It may be that you are both 
from the same place. That you know her.” 

“Oh, no! Oh, no! Yet, yet — she bears a 
strange likeness to one I knew of. But that one 
is an aristocrat. And they say there are so many 
of those accursed creatures in Paris — disguised — 


“ SHE IS NO MAEQUISE ” 


255 


“ She is no aristocrat,” Dubroc said decisively. 
“And she is my promised wife. You are mis- 
taken, bonne femme.” 

“Your promised wife!” Adele Satigny whis- 
pered through her lips. “ Your promised wife ! ” 

“Yes, my promised wife. And, citizeness,” 
he continued, while his eyes peered into hers, “ it 
would be bad, very bad for any who tried to 
separate us or to injure her. She is a good girl, 
is Margot ” 

“ Margot ! ” 

“Yes, Margot. Does not the name please 
you ? ” 

“Ah! why should it not? Still — still — she 
bears so strange a resemblance to the Mar- 
quise ” 

“ She is no marquise, I tell you. And we are 
to be married directly after — I mean very soon. 
Citizeness, you had best go on your way now.” 

“ You think then that ” 

“ I think that you are no friend of hers. That, 
perhaps, she has outwitted you in some way. 
Perhaps has stolen a lover from you ere now. 
She is younger than you and better-looking ” 

“ Animal ! ” hissed Adele Satigny, with a 
devilish glance from her dark eyes. 

“Go on your way, citizeness. And, remem- 
ber, she is my future wife, a wife worth having. 
If any one, any rival endeavoured to harm her, 
I — I — we ll ! I should pity them. Eemember, 
too, it is dangerous, deadly dangerous, to utter 


256 


THE YEAR ONE 


rhodomontades about rivals in Paris nowadays. 
Sometimes they recoil on the teller’s heads.” 

“She lies,” said Dubroc to himself, as Adele 
Satigny turned away. “ Yet, were Margot forty 
thousand times a marquise she should be safe. 
Those louis d’ors must be mine ; afterwards it is 
time enough to see if she is to be mine too. 
Dieu ! ten thousand livres in louis d’ors. For that 
sum the Austrian woman would be almost safe 
herself if matters rested with me.” 

Whereupon he went on his way, though, as he 
did so, he still mused on what this woman had 
said to him. 

“ Margot bears a strange resemblance to some 
marquise, does she! Well! if so, then the louis 
d’ors are the more likely to be certain — though 
the bride is not. Yet — yet — brides are easy 
enough to find, while the devil himself can hardly 
discover aught but assignats in Paris now. 
Peste ! if it comes to choosing, the money is best. 
Margot, ma mie ,” he muttered; “ if I can make 
it so, you are safe, and so too is your friend. 
Who would not serve a marquise who gave him 
ten thousand livres in louis d’ors ? ” 

Such were Dubroc’s sentiments, and such were 
the sentiments of nine-tenths of that mob which, 
at the present moment, was prostrating itself in 
semi-drunken adoration before the noble senti- 
ments expressed by the words, Liberte ? Egalite y et 
Fraternite. 


CHAPTER XXII 

FOE HIS SAKE 

As Adele Satigny took her way back to the 
Hotel d’Aubray, she decided that she must, under 
no consideration, tell Jean that his wife was still 
alive. For to do that would, she knew, provide 
him with one more opportunity of carrying out 
a scheme he had for some time meditated and 
even talked about to her ; a scheme for escaping 
to either England or Holland. While, although 
he had always talked over this meditated flight 
as one in which she would naturally accompany 
him, she had very strong doubts about the truth 
of the suggestion. 

“ He desires freedom from her, ” she mut- 
tered to herself, as she made her way as swiftly 
as she could to the other side of the Seine ; “ in 
spite of his assumed regret he gloated over those 
news sheets when I put them in his hands. Yet, 
tired as he was of her and her contempt for him, 
he has no desire to put me in her place, nor to 
do justice to me, to make me an honest woman 
at last ! ” And she ground her little white teeth 
together as she thought of the tricky, cunning 
man with whom she had linked her lot for years. 

Yet she had other things to think of, too; 

257 


258 


THE YEAR ONE 


things that tore and lacerated her heart as much 
as they bewildered her brain while she strove to 
understand how they could ever have come to 
pass. 

“ Everything that those papers said,” she con- 
tinued, musing, “ every piece of intelligence that 
I was able to glean, pointed to the fact that this 
woman was dead. The Moniteur said that 
she was clad in a plain but good travelling dress 
of dark blue Nimes cloth — Dieu! it was the 
very dress she wore when she waited day after 
day in the churchyard at Bricourt; the very 
dress she wore when they took her and that 
Englishman out of the boat. The journals said, 
too, that she was fair, tall — svelte , aged from 
twenty to twenty-five. And — and — curse her ! — 
handsome. Can that apply to any other woman 
than her ? Could there be any woman so like 
and with — with — my God! — her Acte (P accusa- 
tion in her pocket. It is impossible — beyond 
belief.” 

She was crossing one of the bridges now ; 
drawing near to the end of her destination as she 
pondered on all these things when, as she did so, 
there struck into her mind another thought — the 
thought that, after all, she must herself be mis- 
taken in imagining that she had seen Lucienne 
d’Aubray ; that she was still alive. She began 
to feel sure — perhaps because it was so comfort- 
ing and welcome a feeling — that, after all, she 
had been mistaken. She felt sure she had be- 


FOE HIS SAKE 


259 


lieved too easily that the hair of the woman she 
had watched and tracked for these days was 
dyed, that the skin was stained. While, as she 
so thought, she turned over in her mind a dozen 
cases of remarkable resemblances amongst various 
people of which she had either heard or known. 
She recalled two girls in Brittany who were so 
alike — even in the colour of their skin and hair — 
though of no relationship — that, had it not been 
for the difference in their class and, consequently, 
in their dress, the one could never have been dis- 
tinguished from the other. She remembered too, 
how one man in her own neighbourhood who 
was poor had gone as a soldier for a considera- 
tion, in place of another who was well-to-do, and 
how the exchange had never been discovered ; 
she called to mind a dozen stories she had heard 
of similar resemblances, and of some play she 
had once seen dealing with the same subject. 
While, also, there ran continually through all 
these recollections the memory of the precise 
statements made by the Moniteur and half-a- 
dozen other papers as to the clothes and the ap- 
pearance of the ci-devant Marquise, as well as 
the memory of that Acte d’ accusation found in 
the dead woman’s pocket. 

“ I was mistaken,” she whispered resolutely at 
last. “ I must have been mistaken. My fear of 
her return, of her existence, made me ready to 
believe, to clutch at, any phantom as a real 
thing. Madame la Marquise is dead, the way is 


260 


THE YEAE ONE 


open to her successor. Jean, rnon brave , you 
shall not escape me, you cannot escape me. 
While, even if you so much as attempt to do so, 
then — then — gave a vous” And again she set 
her little white teeth together and went to that 
meeting in the garret with Jean Aubray. But, 
even as she went, she determined that she would 
know more ; that she would obtain still further 
proofs ; that, in some way, she would stand face 
to face with this woman who so strangely resem- 
bled Lucienne. She was resolved to do this, to 
hear her speak as well as to see her, to have her 
doubts decided and set at rest forever. While, 
if that woman were in absolute truth Lucienne 
d’ Aubray — what then? Well! were there not 
in Paris at this time scores of ways by which an 
aristocrat might be swept from his or her 
enemy’s path ! She resolved all this, she resolved 
that if Lucienne were still alive it should not be 
for long. She did so while not knowing nor 
dreaming of what the strange hush meant which 
brooded over Paris on this Sunday afternoon, 
nor understanding why groups of men and women 
stood and whispered at street corners. 

Meanwhile that woman who had so occupied the 
thoughts of Adele Satigny of late, the woman 
whose appearance before her eyes had terrified 
her more than a thousand spectres would have 
done, was in La Force — the great door was closed 
and locked behind her. She had gained her 


FOR HIS SAKE 


261 


heart’s desire ; the same walls which enclosed her 
hero enclosed her too. In that gloomy, horrible 
prison which, even in the warm September after- 
noon, seemed to reek of damp unclean odours ; — 
odours of frowsy clothes and common food and 
unwashed bodies huddled together — odours such 
as the hold of a galley or a slave ship might emit 
— she was almost happy. Happy because George 
Hope and she were near together once more ; be- 
cause, at last, she had made, or was about to 
make, some return for all that he had done or at- 
tempted to do for her ; because they would soon 
be free together or dead together. 

“ Stay here,” the man named Jules said, while 
he indicated a side room which he used as his 
lodge. “ Stay here. The visitors are going out. 
Yet most of them go forth into the Rue des Bal- 
lets: ’tis nearer to St. Antoine. That’s where 
most of our caged birds come from.” 

“You know what I am here for ?” Lucienne 
asked, as she sank on to a bench in this room. 
“ What I am here to do ? ” 

“ I know what you are here to attempt to do. 
To get the scelerat , ’Ope, released ; the man with 
rich friends. The man who has made money by 
the forged — hein! — by the assignats. Is it not 
that ? ” 

“ It is the man you mean,” Lucienne whispered, 
though as she did so she bent her head so that 
the fellow should not see her face, nor the tears 
which sprang to her eyes. 


262 


THE YEAE ONE 


For her whole soul revolted against what she 
had to do, against her having to let it be imagined 
that this man, this brave, heroic Englishman who 
had striven so to save her, was a common vulgar 
forger who, by being supposed to be so vile, would 
obtain the sympathies of the mob, which would 
ere long enter the prison intent upon slaughter- 
ing all who were not of their own kind. 

“ How comes it,” the man went on, “ that his 
rich friends employ you ? Are you his sweet- 
heart — his chere amie f Do you love him ? ” 

“ I am not his sweetheart ; not his chere amie,” 
Lucienne answered, her teeth pressed into her 
nether lip as she did so ; her hand upon her 
bosom. Yet, still, she answered firmly. For 
must she not bear even this — must she not bear 
all — to help and succour him ? Nay, for him, for 
his safety, would she not even brand herself as 
being that which she now denied herself to be : 
if it would add to his chances of salvation would 
she not proclaim herself a wanton, striving to 
save him she loved. Were there any bounds she 
would not overpass ; she, who to-night — to-mor- 
row — might die by his side, and, so, would die at 
peace. 

Then, remembering that she had still to be an 
actress, that every emotion no matter how deep 
must be crushed and subdued, that she must never 
think of who or what she really was, she looked 
up at J ules with a roguish glance and said, “ Am 
I not Isidore’s future wife ? And the chance has 


FOE HIS SAKE 


263 


come to us of being rich — rich enough to marry,” 
and she laughed, while wondering as she did so 
why the laugh did not strike her dead at the 
man’s feet. “We are to be rich. And you — 
you ? Are you to have no share ? ” 

“It may be done,” Jules answered, though his 
tone was a dubious one. “It may. Yet, yet — 
he will be lucky if he escapes going before the 
judges who will assemble here to-morrow. Be- 
fore Hebert, they say, and ” 

“ Before judges ! ” gasped Lucienne, while her 
face became like marble. “ Judges ! What 
judges ! Are they all to be judged ? I thought 
— that — that ” 

“ Some — most — will be tried. In spite of Marat, 
who says that to gratify the public vengeance one 
should slay all the prisoners, there will be some 
trials. There ” — and he nodded over his shoulder 
— “ in the hall. The lucky ones will be those who 
escape without trial, who can make their way out 
of the prison. If he is clever, sharp, he may do 
so when I come to summon him. He might wrig- 
gle out of my hands, mix with the crowd, and 
so, accompanied by Dubroc who will be here, 
escape. If he is clever. Astute.” 

“ God ! ” reflected Lucienne. “ I never dreamt 
of, never thought of this. They said the coquins 
and coquines would be released in the darkness 
of the night or at dawn, and that he might per- 
haps go with them, so long as he was deemed to 
be a ‘ thief.’ What is to be done ! What ! ” 


264 


THE YEAE ONE 


Then, aloud, she said, 

“ I must see him. I must. I must tell him 
this. He thinks, he is sure to think that he will 
be released with all the other — scelerats 

“He cannot think that. It is impossible he 
should know it. They do not know it themselves. 
Listen. Dange, one of the municipal officers, is 
coming to-night, he will give orders for the re- 
lease of all prisoners, especially those who are 
4 in secret,’ except those whom he names. If he 
does not name this ’Ope — quel nom de chien ! — 
then he too will go. If his warrant says he is 
only accused of forging and not of being an aris- 
tocrat or a political prisoner, then, doubtless, he 
will not be named.” 

As the man spoke it seemed to Lucienne that 
she could bear no more, that she must fall faint- 
ing or dead at last. For she knew — there was 
no hope of doubting ! — that the true reason why 
George Hope was here must be known to those 
in authority. They, at least, must be aware that 
he was no common forger, no scoundrel preying 
on his fellow-men, but, instead, an Englishman 
who had fought against and slain the soldiers and 
sailors of the Eevolutionary government while 
endeavouring to assist an emigree to escape. 

“ He will be named,” she wailed, unable to re- 
press her words. “ He will.” 

Then knowing that still, to the last, she must 
act her hateful hideous part, she said, while 
striving to contain her feelings, “ They brought 


FOR HIS SAKE 


265 


him with a number of aristocrats from Brittany ; 
they will deem him one. He is lost.” 

“Oh! never fear. They know well enough. 
If he is no aristocrat and has done nothing worse 
than forgery, he is safe.” 

“ Nothing worse than forgery ! ” Lucienne 
whispered to herself. “Nothing worse than 
that ! God keep us both. How must the actual 
things he did stand in their eyes.” 

“Yet cheer up,” the other went on; “if it 
were only to obtain permission for him to walk 
out of La Force with the others, his friends 
would not be willing to pay ten thousand livres. 
They know well enough that there is something 
else against him, though you may not. And we 
know, Isidore and I know, that we have got to 
do something to earn those ten thousand livres — 

in gold. Trust us and ” 

“ But if he is tried — sentenced — ah ! ” 

“Wait, wait! They will not begin with him. 
There is the citizeness Lamballe; they will be- 
gin with her and her friends. By the time they 
have come to our friend — this ’Ope — the con- 
fusion will be great. When they call his 

name ” 

“Ah!” 

“ Then is the time. And you — you — must be 

his wife — his girl ” 

“ His wife ! His girl ! ” 

“ You must assist. You must act, play a part. 
You must laugh and rejoice as he appears 


2G6 


THE YEAR ONE 


amongst the mob : you must shriek with joy at 
his having been released without trial. You 
must dance and sing and call down blessings on 
the revolution, on Danton, Marat, all. Can you 
act ? Eor his sake, for Isidore’s, for yours, for 
mine. For ten thousand livres in gold ! ” 

“ Can I act ? ” repeated Lucienne, in a hoarse 
whisper. 

“ If you can, he may be saved. Isidore and I 
can manage our — friends. Your acting must 
hoodwink the others. And — perhaps — they will 
believe ; especially since they will see him in our 
hands. So — in the excitement — in the turmoil — 
he may escape. We shall have done our best. 
But, remember, it will be sharp work. Clever 
work ! One>faux pas will ruin all.” 

“ There shall be none,” said Lucienne. “ None 
on my part. He shall be saved. The money 
shall be ours. You shall acknowledge some day 
that I can act,” and again she forced herself to 
smile. “ Now — let me see him.” 

“ Not yet. Not till it is dark. Then — perhaps. 
When I have got all my flier du prison tran- 
quil. Then you shall see him. But bid him be 
ready with the money : with the gold. The 
trials will begin early; he may be called on 
soon : directly after Lamballe and her following 
are disposed of.” 

“ I will tell him. The money will be ready.” 

“ So. And tell him also what I have told you. 
That he will be called on for certain : that then 


FOR HIS SAKE 


267 


will be the moment — if he misses it his chance is 
gone. Tell him he is in our hands, in yours and 
mine and Isidore’s ; that we will save him. Can 
you do this? Above all can you go through 
with what you have to do to-morrow ? ” 

“ I can do everything you tell me. All. All. 
I am resolved to go through with it, to never 
falter. For the sake of him I ” 

“ Of him you love ! ” 

“ Love ! ” Lucienne exclaimed, her eyes starry, 
though full of tears. “ Of him I love ? For the 
sake of whom ? ” 

“ Of whom ? Why, for the sake of Isidore. 
And of — the money.” 

“ Ah yes, ah yes,” the distraught, almost mad- 
dened woman answered hysterically, half laugh- 
ing and half crying, while once more she was 
possessed of that wild feeling of hysteria, of de- 
lirium which had overpowered her on the night 
when she had danced frenziedly in the arms of 
that future r eng er esse to the tune of La Carmag- 
nole. “ Oh, yes. Yes ! For the sake of Isidore, 
our beau Isidore, my future husband. For his 
sake, and for that of the money. Come,” she 
cried wildly, “ come. Let us be gay and brave. 
You have drink here,” she said, seizing a bottle 
of wine that stood on a table in the room. “ Let 
us drink and be gay. Come, let us toast to 
to-morrow’s work — to-morrow’s success, even 
though we wade through blood and slaughter to 
obtain it. Let us drink to our own healths and 


268 


THE YEAR ONE 


our prosperity; to Isidore and to the — gold. 
Join me, mon brave. Join me in the toast.” 
While as she spoke, she seized the bottle in her 
delirium and placed it to her lips. 

“ Drink, Jules, drink,” she cried again, even 
while she slapped him lightly on the shoulder, 
“ drink, mon chien , to our success.” 

“ I do drink,” the fellow said, taking the bot- 
tle from her hand. “ I do drink to our success. 
Yet, remember : above all things keep calm for 
to-morrow : keep cool and steady. When all is 
over, we can drink and carouse together. Above 
all, keep calm.” 

“ Never fear,” answered Lucienne, as now she 
hummed gaily a line of the “ Marseillaise ” and 
smiled on the man as one demented may smile. 
“Never fear! Can I act! — Well! — you shall 
see.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE SECOND SEPTEMBER 

All was very still in the prison that night, so 
still that a call from one warder to another who 
happened to be on a lower, or higher, flight of 
stairs could be plainly heard and the words dis- 
tinguished; while even the shuffling tramp of 
the sentries of the National Guard in the Rue du 
Roi de Sicile and in the Rue des Ballets were 
quite perceptible to those within the walls of La 
Force. For, to-night, the ribands and ribaudes 
seemed to have ceased their horrible orgies earlier 
than usual, as though they knew or, at least, sus- 
pected the doom which was hovering over, and 
about to fall upon, some of those who were in- 
carcerated in the place which was henceforth to 
be accursed. 

Yet, as evening grew into night, there came 
sounds from the outside world which seemed to 
speak of some deep stir or commotion that was 
gradually gathering force ; occasionally — though 
slowly at first and then more frequently — the 
tocsin was heard ringing from one belfry after 
another, but more particularly from the eastern 
end of Paris, from the St. Antoine end ; while, 
following this, there broke upon the air, and, so, 
269 


270 


THE YEAR ONE 


upon the ears of these prisoners within La Force, 
the sounds of drums and trumpets which told 
those acquainted with such things that a general 
call to arms was being beaten. 

But, ere this latter sound had forced itself upon 
any ears except those of the most keen, and while, 
as yet, the deep ringing of the tocsin from that 
one direction alone, the direction of St. Antoine, 
had not become continuous, Lucienne, creeping 
in the darkness up a flight of stairs, was drawing 
near to where George Hope was kept a prisoner. 
Up that flight of stairs she crept as if in terror 
of being seen — though, in truth, there were none 
about to observe her now, since all were kept 
carefully to the places — the cells and rooms — or 
the big common room of the coquins and coquines 
— which were allotted to them. And thus she 
mounted until she reached a landing from which 
there ran a long narrow passage that was lit, 
both at the further and the nearer end, with a 
candle in a wire frame, and on either side of 
which were doors having white numbers painted 
on them. 

“ It is No. 53,” she whispered to herself, “ and 
in the middle of the passage. Ah ! what is he 
doing ! What ! And — and — will it make him 
happy to see me again ? Or — has he forgotten 
the woman to whom his miseries are due ? ” 

Yet, since there came a wan smile, a ghost of 
what a smile should be, upon her face, she could 
hardly have believed that to be the case. 


THE SECOND SEPTEMBER 271 


Then she went on farther along this passage 
while noticing even in her trepidation that the 
tocsin was sounding more loudly and continu- 
ously now, and so, at last, she stood outside the 
door of No. 53. 

In her hand, which she had drawn swiftly 
from her pocket as she approached the spot, she 
held a key ; one that had been detached from a 
bunch by Jules and given to her when he told 
her that she might at last go up and see the pris- 
oner, the scelerat for whose liberation by his rich 
friends — doubtless all scelerats like himself ! — ten 
thousand livres were to be paid on the morrow. 
But even as the man had handed this key to her 
he had reflected : “ Even if he should not escape, 
the money will still be ours. It will be upon his 
body ; we shall get it. Only — this Margot’s dot 
will have been paid to Isidore without the en- 
cumbrance of the wife.” 

Still, since he had a very shrewd suspicion that 
his amorous friend desired both dot and wife, he 
gave Lucienne the key and let her go forth to 
No. 53, while bidding her to be sure and remem- 
ber all that had to be done, and carefully done, 
on the morrow. 

At first she scarcely knew, when she stood out- 
side that door (while her heart beat as though it 
would burst beneath its conflicting emotions), 
how best to attract his attention or how to make 
her presence known to him. For, if she unlocked 
the door and entered while he was asleep, he 


272 


THE YEAE ONE 


might start up with a cry which would disturb 
other gaolers near ; men who were not in the 
secret possessed by Isidore and J ules ; men who, 
it might be, were more faithful to their miser- 
able duties and their miserable rulers than those 
two ruffians were. And thus suspicions might 
be aroused, all might be rendered impossible and 
lost. The chance of saving him might be gone 
forever. 

“ Yet if I whisper to him,” she thought ; “ how 
shall I make him understand that it is I ? One 
name I cannot utter here ; no ! not though its 
bearer is deemed dead. While as for his, — to 
call him Monsieur Hope ! — Ah, no ! no ! How 
can I speak so coldly to him. To him who is in 
this place through me. To him who is ruined — 
lost — for me.” 

Then, suddenly, while remembering that there 
was no time to be wasted ; while remembering, 
too, that every moment which she threw away 
here gave some other warder the opportunity of 
discovering her, she decided on her action and 
put that action in practice. She gave one tap, 
gentle yet firm, upon the panel of the door, and 
anxiously, feverishly, awaited the response it 
might call forth. 

A moment later, she, bending her ear to the 
panel while pressing both her hands to her beat- 
ing heart, heard a slight movement in the room 
and then a voice — his voice! — asking who was 
there. 


THE SECOND SEPTEMBER 273 


“ It is I ! ” she whispered. “ I — Lucienne ! ” 

“ Lucienne ! ” she heard him gasp. “ Lucienne ! 
Ah ! God, not you. Not you. Ah ! say it is not 
true. Say it. Say it. Yet, if it is true, and 
this is no trick, for God’s sake begone. Do not 
stay a moment in this place.” And then she 
heard him moving inside, she knew that he had 
left his bed and was coming nearer to the door ; 
a moment later, she heard him speaking again. 
“ Go, I implore you,” he said now through the 
door. “ Go. We are doomed. All in this place 
who are not scoundrels and women of the lowest 
class are lost. I know it. Go, I beseech you. 
Go at once.” 

But, ere he had uttered his last words, he 
heard — he must have heard — the key thrust into 
the lock. And, next, he understood that it was 
turned, he felt the door pushed against him : a 
moment later Lucienne stood before him, her 
figure and face visible in the dull light cast by 
the candles at each end of the passage. 

“ It is you,” he said in a tone that was almost 
an affrighted one, while as he did so she saw that 
his hands were thrust out before him, not as 
though to send her from him but, instead, as if 
in supplication to her to depart. “It is you. 
Oh ! that you should venture here.” 

“ It is I,” she whispered. i( Oh ! oh ! I can- 
not speak. Y et — yet — ah ! — Monsieur Hope. 
George,” she said, suddenly abandoning all false 
delicacy — was this a time for such things ! — 


274 THE YEAR ONE 

“ George, I am here to save you — if God per- 
mits.” 

“ To save me,” he repeated, while as he spoke 
he seized both her hands in his and — once — he 
lifted them to his lips. “ To save me. It is im- 
possible. Yet still I was made so happy ; so — so 
— happy to think, to know, that you were saved 
yourself. Lucienne, at first I deemed you dead. 
I saw you fall as they dragged me away that 
night. I thought that you — had — left — me — for- 
ever. How did it happen that you escaped ? ” 

Yery briefly she told him of all that had oc- 
curred since the night of the 10th of August, yet 
even in the telling she could not divulge all. 
Standing there before him in that room, gazing 
into his eyes, which were never removed from 
her face, she could not bear to tell him of those 
whom she had made her companions, of those 
whom she had allowed to deem themselves her 
intimates — her lovers ! She could not do that, 
notwithstanding all had been done and suffered 
for his sake. Wherefore she glossed lightly over 
several particulars and contented herself with 
saying that, on the morrow, if Heaven should 
but prosper her endeavour, he would be free. 

“ For that : for your sweet mercy,” he whis- 
pered, since he knew that his voice must not be 
raised, “I thank you. I worship you for your 
charity and goodness ” 

“ My charity and goodness ! To you who are 
here through me alone ! ” 


THE SECOND SEPTEMBEB 275 


“Never speak of that! But, instead, grant 
me one prayer. Leave this place now, at once. 
Leave it while there is still time. And then — 
then — if I escape to-morrow, if all that you have 
striven to do for me succeeds, we shall meet 
again. Once more I can endeavour to assist you 
to leave this country. To be free.” 

Yet, as he spoke, he knew by her action that 
his words were falling vainly on her ears, that 
his desire would not be fulfilled. He saw that 
she had seated herself on the one wretched chair 
which the room contained and that there was no 
sign of compliance upon her face. 

“ Leave this place ! ” she said a moment later. 
“ Leave you here. Ah ! mon ami , I shall never 
leave it except we go forth together. And if 
that is not to be, then we stay here and meet our 
fate together.” 

“ Lucienne ! ” 

“ Afterwards, if we should escape — you — may 
leave me if you wish and — even then — you will 
leave me your debtor.” 

And again George Hope muttered “ Lucienne ” 
though with a break in his voice that rendered 
the word indistinct. 

“Now,” she said, thrusting her hand into her 
pocket and drawing forth a bag. “Now, take 
this and keep it secure. To-morrow — when we 
— when you are outside the prison, give it to the 
man who is with you ” 

“ It is money,” he said. “ I cannot take it from 


276 THE YEAR ONE 

you. Money from you to buy my safety ! It is 
impossible.” 

“Impossible!” she murmured. “Impossible 
that you will let me save you — after all that I 
have striven so hard to do. Impossible that you 
will accept aught at my hands. Ah, God ! if it 
is so I would that I had died that night in the 
boat, I would that the bullet which slew that 
wretched woman who became my substitute had 
found my heart instead.” While as she spoke 
she wept, her strength failing her at last, her 
strong indomitable will deserting her before his 
resistance of all her hopes and wishes. 

“ Lucienne,” he said, his own heart wrung by 
her tears even as, a few moments before, it had 
leapt joyfully within him at the discovery of 
how steadfast she had been in her determination 
to save him. “ Lucienne, give me the money. I 
will take it, use it as you wish. And, surely, the 
day must come when by some chance — when you 
and I shall be ” 

As he spoke, and ere he could conclude what- 
ever he had intended to say, they heard a foot- 
step outside the door, while, a moment later, it 
was pushed open gently and the hand of Jules 
was protruded into the room. 

“ Be ready for any emergency,” he said, and 
he directed his glance towards George in a man- 
ner which inferred that, by now, he must have 
been made acquainted with all that was about to 
be done. “ Be ready. There is bad news. The 


THE SECOND SEPTEMBER 277 


Germans are advancing rapidly, the judges may 
come at any moment to — to — empty the prisons. 
Already the gendarmerie are here to reinforce 
the National Guard. The trials may commence 
at once. And a great crowd is outside.” 

“Is Isidore here?” Lucienne whispered to 
him. “ Is he at his post ? ” 

“Nay. The devil only knows what has be- 
come of him ! Yet they say that many are gone 
to the L’Abbaye. He may be there. Yet have no 
fear. He will surely return and they will begin 
with the aristocrats, with the royalist women 
first.” And he disappeared. 

As he did so Lucienne and George heard a 
sound outside the door and understood in an in- 
stant that he had turned the key upon them. 
Once more they were prisoners together. 

“ Is this treachery on his part ? ” George whis- 
pered. 

“ It is impossible. He knows, or supposes, that 
you have the money ready to pay for your de- 
liverance, as well as that there is nothing against 
me. Ah ! what is that ? ” 

She might well utter the exclamation since, 
now, there arose a terrible hubbub from the 
courtyard below — which was overlooked by the 
window of the room they were in ; — a hubbub 
caused by screams from women, by cries from 
some men and oaths from others. There were, 
however, other sounds which mingled with those 
shouts and cries — the rattle of musket-stocks on 


278 


THE YEAR ONE 


the stones of the courtyard while some military 
orders were bawled — but these were outside in a 
street. And, above all, there rose an indescriba- 
ble uproar from some large mob which was evi- 
dently assembling in that street as well as from 
others in the neighbourhood, mobs which now 
began to shout and sing the eternal “ Dansons la 
Carmagnole ” which, mingled with the loathsome 
Qa ira shouted by another portion of the crowd, 
caused an indescribable discord. 

“ What are they doing now ? ” asked Lucienne 
to George who had mounted on the table to look 
out into the courtyard, such action being neces- 
sary in consequence of the window, or guichet , 
being some eight feet from the floor. “ What ? 
And are the judges come ? ” 

“ Hot yet so far as I can see. But the yard is 
full of men and women. They stand on differ- 
ent sides and the former look more terrified than 
the latter, who laugh and jeer and join in the 
singing. How — now — a fresh band of armed 
men has come in and they dispute with the 
woman who entered my name in the list, the 
woman Hiancre. I can hear what they say. 
They demand Madame Lamballe — alas ! poor 
lady. The woman refuses to give up her keys, 
and they say they will wait till the judges come. 
There is a hideous hag amongst them whom they 
hail as Angelique, as well as Mere Yoyer; she 
swears she will not — nay Lucienne, I may not 
repeat it.” As, indeed, it was well he should not 


THE SECOND SEPTEMBER 279 


do, since the horrible wretch had that moment 
sworn amidst loud acclamations from the mob 
that she would have a human heart for her din- 
ner next day. 

“ There is a man arrived now,” George went 
on, “ whom they hail by the name of Dange. It 
is the women who are clapping their hands be- 
cause he says he is going to set all of those free 
who are not here for political offences. The 
men dispute this ; so, too, do the public who 
have entered. Some of the public look like sav- 
age animals, there are children amongst them 
who scream for le spectacle , also people who 
weep as though they were friends of the pris- 
oners. And — and — already the mob seems get- 
ting beyond control. Some have burst into a 
lodge off the courtyard — it is that of the gaoler 
Baux — and are coming out with bottles and 
glasses in their hands — already they seem mad 
with drink. One of the female prisoners has 
fainted and a gendarme cuts her laces with his 
sabre and — and — my God ! that man is free al- 
ready.” 

“What man?” whispered Lucienne, “what 
man?” Yet, as she did so, she strove to make 
her voice sound strong and fearless, she strove 
also to quell the awful feeling of horror that 
had seized upon her at all which George de- 
scribed. Above all, she strove to so hide her 
weakness and womanly fears from him for 
whose safety she had worked so hard and was 


280 


THE YEAR ONE 


still working so hard, that he should never guess 
that she had any doubts as to the ultimate ac- 
complishment of that work. 

“ What man ? ” she whispered, not knowing to 
whom George might be referring, yet with some 
feeling of dread tugging at her heart. 

“ One — a scoundrel — a forger of assignats who 
has been here longer than I. One whom all the 
others said was surely doomed. Yet, now, he 
mingles with the crowd that has entered as 
though he were one of them. He cries, ‘ Vive 
la Republic. Death to the seller ats and aristo- 
crats.’ He winks, too, at a warder who returns 
his glance. God ! will they set such as he free ? ” 
“ Life is dear to all,” gasped Lucienne, affrighted 
at his words. “ To all. Even better to escape as 
he has done — as — as — a forger of assignats set 
free by his companions, than to die. And — 
there is — no need to slay a forger. Perhaps, 
too,” she whispered, “ he is none. Under that 
guise he may have gained the friendship of the 
mob — their protection — and so — escapes.” 

“If so he is a cur. Is it not better to die 
a gentleman than to owe one’s life to so foul 
an artifice. To die honourably — Lucienne,” he 
cried, hearing a moan and then the sound of a 
fall, “ Lucienne ! What is it ? What ? ” 

Yet no answer came from Lucienne’s lips. She 
had fallen fainting — swooning — upon the hor- 
rible floor of the room. His words had struck 
her senseless ; the swift, sickening fear which 


THE SECOND SEPTEMBER 


281 


had come upon her that now — with the supreme 
moment of his salvation or death near at hand, 
he would choose the latter in preference to dis- 
honourable safety — had deprived her of con- 
sciousness. 


CHAPTER XXIY 


LES SEPTEMBRISEURS 

All through that night — and long after George 
Hope had restored Luoienne to consciousness and 
had again and again tried to soothe and cheer 
her — the awful turmoil went on in the prison 
yard: the yells and shouts and screams, the 
oaths and hideous blasphemies continued, and 
not only continued but increased, while min- 
gling with other sounds as terrifying if not as 
horrible. For, now, from countless churches all 
over Paris the tocsin rang ; the deep-toned bells 
of Notre Dame and of the Hotel de Yille boomed 
clear and distinct above the others ; drums were 
heard beating loudly the call to arms, trumpets 
brayed and the tramp of heavy feet were heard 
— even the cannon roared in the distance. For, 
besides the deeds that were to begin at dawn in 
the prisons of La Force, L’Abbaye and many 
others, there were other causes for the feverish 
excitement which that night drove all Paris mad 
and sent the Parisians into the white heat of 
delirium and frenzy to which, at intervals, they 
have so often been stirred. 

Longwy had been taken by the Germans, who 
were now near Paris, some cried ; while others 
282 


LES SEPTEMBRISEURS 


283 


screamed that, when they came, they should at 
least find the prisons empty, or only filled with 
dead, and, a moment later, howled for a mas- 
sacre of every prisoner to commence. Upon the 
facade of the Hotel de Ville a black flag floated, 
on which had been hastily inscribed the words, 
“ La patrie est en danger” ; upon the Champs de 
Mars Danton harangued a mob of nearly fifty 
thousand people and told them that Prussians, 
Austrians, emigrants and all suspects and pris- 
oners, had combined in a deep-laid plot to over- 
throw the government and slaughter all who 
were not of their following. 

In La Force itself, as well as around it in those 
streets which enclosed the prison, the horrors of 
the day had commenced at dawn. For then the 
judges, Hebert and L’Huillier, had assembled, 
and already the trials (sic) of all those who 
had not been released during the night, to the 
amount of one hundred and twenty persons, 
commenced. And, though the room in which 
these “ trials ” were conducted was not visible to 
either George or Lucienne— the latter of whom 
stood upon the table by the former’s side, while 
holding his hand as she gazed, fascinated, at the 
revolting saturnalia which was taking place in 
the courtyard below — it was still possible for 
them to hear the harsh rasping voice of the pub- 
lic accuser of the moment and place, Pierre 
Chantrot, as he unfolded the crimes of those 
whom he sought to slay. And to hear, also, the 


284 


THE YEAR ONE 


voices of the judges, the cries of Grace , Grace , 
uttered occasionally, though not often, by the 
mob, and the words which sounded to their ears 
as words of acquittal — the words u Elargissez 
Monsieur ” or “ Elargissez Madame .” Those 
words sounded so to them because they thought 
that the expression meant what it signified, not 
knowing that, in actual fact, it was an arranged 
signal for the victims to be led out and slaugh- 
tered as they reached the streets^as, also, the 
expressions A VAbbaye or A Coblenz meant the 
same thing. Similarly, neither of them knew 
that the cry of Vive la Nation meant that the 
prisoner before the judges was absolved. 

“ There is another forger set free,” said George 
to Lucienne as, suddenly, an evil-looking man ap- 
peared in the courtyard ; one about whose neck 
a dirty, dishevelled girl of the people hung, while 
men of his own class grasped him by the hand 
and thrust bottles to his lips. “ Another ! And 
to think of all who are here, yet innocent. The 
Princesse de Lamballe, Madame de Tourzel, Ma- 
dame de Rochefeuille.” 

“ Better free than dead,” murmured Lucienne, 
almost beside herself at hearing George again 
refer to the escape of the forgers and vagabonds. 
“ Better free than dead. And this man’s pardon 
makes the case of the others no worse.” While, 
as she spoke, her heart sank within her at the 
fear that, if he should learn under what guise his 
own escape had been planned, he would not ac- 


LES SEPTEMBRISEURS 


285 


cept his freedom, but that, instead, he would 
firmly refuse to avail himself of it. Whereupon 
she resolved that, if, by any power on earth, she 
could prevent his ever knowing the secret of how 
he was to be set free of this horrible place, she 
would do so. Only — could she by any chance 
prevent that knowledge reaching him? Could 
she ? Fervently, beneath her breath, she prayed 
God it might be so. 

“You are right,” she heard George saying to 
her, even as these thoughts, this determination, 
came to her mind. “ You are right. Better live 
than die ; better live to lead a better life than die 
in one’s shame. Yet, I would that those poor in- 
nocent ladies could live, too, and that they might 
escape from the hands of these ruffians. What 
crime but that of being loyal have they com- 
mitted?” 

Still the horrible, hideous uproar went on be- 
low them ; still more and more released pris- 
oners — all of the lowest class ! — burst into the 
courtyard and were welcomed with wild shouts and 
delirious greetings ; men rushed into the court- 
yard at this time with their faces and hands and 
garments bloodstained ; the hag, Angelique 
Yoyer, appeared with a great slice of pate in her 
red hands, and, from outside, from where the Rue 
du Roi de Sicile was, there arose at swift in- 
tervals shouts, shrieks, the sound of clapping 
hands, and roars mingled with the strains of the 
Marseillaise. Then George, lifting Lucienne to 


286 THE YEAK ONE 

the ground, bade her look forth from the window 
no more. 

At that moment the key turned in the lock 
and, an instant later, Isidore Dubroc stood before 
them — a terrible sight. He, too, was stained, was 
indeed wet with blood, while in his hand he 
carried a bludgeon which was also stained. 

“ Come,” he cried. “ Come. Be ready. Quick, 
follow me. Or, stay — first let me go to the 
other end of the passage and see that all is clear. 
They are fetching Lamballe now — she will not 
take long ! — when they have passed we can go 
out, perhaps, by another door. Yet, I am not 
sure. Therefore, prepare for the worst. If I 
can do it I will, but,” and he repeated his words, 
“ I am not sure. Prepare for the worst.” And 
he left the room. 

‘•'Prepare for the worst,” Lucienne moaned, 
“ for the worst ! Oh ! God, and I had hoped 
so for the best. Ah ! my heart will break,” she 
commenced crying piteously. 

“ Lucienne,” George said now, his whole soul 
overmastered by her grief. “ Lucienne, be brave. 
We have done our best, each for the other; yet 
— yet — I know, I feel and see it in that man’s 
tone — we have failed. Lucienne, let us make our 
farewells. Our chance, is gone,” and now he 
held out his hands to her as though he would 
draw her to him while she, who had been so 
strong, so courageous, and had borne so much, 
abandoning herself, was drawn towards his breast 


LES SEPTEMBRISEURS 287 

upon which, an instant later, she was sobbing 
bitterly. 

“Farewell,” he whispered, “ if it is farewell. 
Adieu, Lucienne. And — and — even now, since 
still there is some chance remaining, I must not 
tell you all that is within my heart, all that has 
grown and dwelt in it since first we met. Yet 
— Lucienne — had we escaped and you had been 
free to come to me ” 

“ George, George,” she murmured through her 
sobs. “ Oh ! God, have pity on us.” 

“Farewell,” he said again, “if so it has to be. 
We are in God’s hands. He must decide. And, 
if there is no hope left, if to-day I give up my 
life, your image shall be the last one in my 
thoughts, your name the last upon my lips.” 
Then, drawing her still closer to his breast, he 
kissed her as a brother might have kissed her, 
once — upon her brow. While she, unable to 
utter any word, still clung to him as though her 
heart was broken. 

But, now, a tread was heard outside and an 
instant later Dubroc had reentered the room. 

“ Come,” he cried, “ come quickly. If we can 
reach the door leading to the Rue des Ballets be- 
fore your name is called we may be in time. 
Quick! Margot, what are you weeping for! 
There must be no weeping if we would pass 
freely through the mob, but, instead, laughing 
and rejoicing. Come,” and he flung open the 
door. 


288 


THE YEAE ONE 


There came, however, an interruption which 
prevented them going forth at once ; an inter- 
ruption that might have called forth pity from 
the stoniest heart ; that did call forth pity from 
them. 

Along the passage there passed a lady whom 
George knew to be Madame de Tourzel, govern- 
ess to the royal children now in the temple, 
supporting another one who was now middle- 
aged, but who bore upon her face the remnants 
of a sweet, soft beauty which, in her youth, must 
have been extreme. Now, she was almost pros- 
trate with fear as the other assisted her and, a 
moment later, fell half -fainting on to the steps of 
a staircase at the end. That she should do so 
was not strange, for even as some name was 
shouted out in the courtyard by the hastily im- 
provised greffier of the court below, the seething 
mass of murderers and murderesses yelled, “No, 
no. Give us Lamballe. It is her turn. Her 
turn now.” 

“ It is not her turn,” whispered Dubroc. 
“ Not yet. The man whom they are calling now 
died from fear last night. It is yours, or that of 
one before you. Come ! ” and he hurried them 
down the corridor in the opposite direction to 
that in which the Princess had been taken. 

So they went along passages and corridors 
which skirted two sides of the courtyard ; pas- 
sages in which were windows giving on to that 
courtyard and through which they could cast 


LES SEPTEMBRISEURS 


289 


hurried, frightened glances. On they went with 
the dead man’s name still being bawled fiercely, 
and clashing with the louder shouts of “Lam- 
balle, Lamballe. The Bourbon woman! Give 
her to us.” On, until at last they stood above a 
short flight of stairs which led down to an open- 
ing into the courtyard. 

If they could once reach that and George was 
not recognised and denounced, his freedom was 
at hand. 

Yet, suddenly, all three paused, Lucienne with 
a shiver, — George in consternation — Dubroc with 
a hideous curse upon his lips. The greffier was 
bawling another name now — since no reply 
could come from that poor dead man who had 
been recently called — the mob were reechoing 
it. All around the court it was being taken up 
by scores of voices. 

And the name they called was ’Ope. Accent- 
uated sometimes into Ope, but still his. His turn 
had come. 

“ You are anybody — anything but that now,” 
whispered Dubroc with white, trembling lips — 
for the ten thousand livres in gold seemed to be 
receding from his grasp now ! — “ anybody, any- 
thing. Dubois — Lemaire — the first name that 
comes to me. While as for you, Margot, you are 
his wife, his girl, his mistress. Anything, also. 
Kiss him, embrace him as we go through ; dance, 
be mad — act. Now come. How ! now ! And 
be bold.” 


290 


THE YEAE ONE 


With a rush he ran down that short flight of 
stairs, his hand on George’s sleeve while bidding 
Lucienne to hold him in the same way on the 
other side and to act — above all to act as she had 
never acted before in her life. With a cry he 
dragged the man into the courtyard amidst the 
reeking, gesticulating, howling mass of filthy 
humanity, while he shouted as he waved his 
stained hands above his head : 

44 Eeleased ! Eeleased ! He was no forger, 
no scelerat as the good judges knew. Eeleased 
to serve the people ! Vive la Republique ! His 
girl has saved him. Our own Dubois is saved.” 

“ Vive la Republique ! Vive Dubois ,” the 
crowd cried. 44 A brave girl that. See how she 
clings to him : look at his arm around her waist. 
Lucky Dubois ! Her arms are softer than the 
bascule of La Guillotine, her lips sweeter than 
those of the coutelas .” 

44 Cry 4 Vive la Republic ,’ ” whispered Dubroc 
to George (while the gaoler shouted 44 Ope ! 
Ope ! Where is he ? Ope ! ”) 44 cry it or you are 
lost.” 

44 Cry it,” whispered Lucienne also and then 
cried it herself, while she snatched off her red 
cap and waved it in the air. 44 Cry it — for my 
sake. For me.” 

Whereupon he cried it even as he cursed him- 
self for doing so. 

Yet all the time they were going on towards 
the courtyard door which opened into the Eue 


LES SEPTEMBRISEURS 


291 


des Ballets, on, with blood red hands thrusting 
bottles towards them, and with repulsive 
wretches shrieking to them to drink. On, with 
startled looks on other prisoners’ faces and 
strange interrogative glances from their eyes — 
yet, to their eternal glory, with no word uttered, 
no hint given of how the tigers within were 
being robbed of their prey ; on past a room from 
the window of which the sad face of the Duchesse 
de Rochefeuille gazed out, she, too, being silent — 
as none who knew her could have doubted she 
would be — while over her face there spread a 
look of joy extreme. On, and nearly through 
the mob now, with George still holding Lucienne 
close to him in his arms and murmuring words 
of comfort in her ear, while she addressed him 
in the terms she had heard used by the woman 
with whom she had lately mixed to those they 
loved ; and pausing only to shriek wildly “ Vive 
la Republic ,” “ Vive la Nation and, once, be- 
neath her breath, to whisper, “ I have saved you. 
I have saved you.” 

On amidst continued shouts of “ Ope ! Ope ! ” 
mixed still with others of “ Lamballe, Lamballe, 
the royalist, the Bourbon’s widow ; ” on until 
they were free of the mass and stood before an 
open door. The door leading to the Rue des 
Ballets. 

Yet, as they reached that door, Lucienne gave 
one wild shriek while, throwing her arms above 
her head, she fell senseless into George’s arms. 


292 


THE YEAR ONE 


For she had seen outside in the street that which 
might well have caused the boldest to be turned 
to stone. She had seen a mass of dead men and 
women , 1 a heap of slaughtered human beings 
lying in that street, their heads battered in from 
behind and, in some cases, cut off ; their clothes 
covered with mud and filth and soaked with 
blood. And this was but the first day — the be- 
ginning of — the massacres ! Those massacres dur- 
ing which the Parisian mob had once more be- 
come cannibals — cannibals such as they had 
often enough been before and such as they were 
to become more than once in after years. Can- 
nibals in all but one thing at which, alone, they 
stopped short. They did not eat their victims. 

“ Carry her,” cried Dubroc, “ carry her. And 
up on to that heap. Up at once, and cry ‘ Vive 
la Nation .’ Up, I say,” and he leapt up himself 
while trampling on the bodies of the dead and 
shouting the words he had bidden George shout. 

“ He cannot mount with his belle-belle in his 
arms,” the people cried, while something — some 
strange chord in their foul, savage nature was 
touched by the sight of the newly released man 
carrying the senseless body of his sweetheart in 
his arms. “ Let him cry on the ground.” And 
all echoed the words, “Cry. Stand there and 
cry.” 

And George did cry aloud “ La Eepublique 


1 “ Une montagne, ” many writers term this heap. 


LES SEPTEMBRISEURS 


293 


though the word he mumbled before those two 
was far removed from the word “ Vive” 

“ Fiacre ! Fiacre ! ” shouted Dubroc now, 
while, on seeing one standing close by in which 
there sat a pale-faced, shuddering man, who was 
simply there for the purpose of regarding the 
massacre, he unceremoniously turned him out of 
it and bade the driver go to a street he named. 
That street being the one wherein he himself 
dwelt. 

“You have the money?” said Dubroc to 
George as the latter supported Lucienne in his 
arms and endeavoured to restore her to con- 
sciousness. “ Now is the time to pay it. Mon 
ami , it has been well earned. If some of those 
now in La Force knew of what I had done, it 
would not be long ere I formed one of that heap 
too.” 

Without a word George drew forth the bag 
and gave it to the ruffian who, in a moment, had 
torn off the string by which it was tied, and, in 
another, was gloating in the sight of so much 
gold. Then, suddenly, while he was letting a 
stream of louis d’ors run from one palm to an- 
other, he stopped and glanced out of the window 
at another fiacre which was passing slowly by. 
A fiacre in which there sat a woman dressed in the 
garb of the people, yet with her cap of liberty 
strangely pulled down over her brows. While 
as he did so, George heard him mutter to him- 
self, “ She here again.” 


294 


THE YEAK ONE 


“You know her ! ” the latter exclaimed. “ You 
know her ! ” 

“Yes, I know her. And,” said Dubroc, “so 
do you. I can see it in your face. You suspect, 
too, that she hates her,” and he touched Lucienne 
with his finger. 

“ Yes, I more than suspect that. But how 
comes it that you possess such knowledge ? ” 

“No matter. Let me get down. I must fol- 
low her. And go you with Margot to the ad- 
dress I gave. I shall be there ere night. Quick, 
let me get down.” 

“ She is, as you say, this girl’s enemy. Surely 
you will not betray her.” 

“ Betray her. No. Never. But I may betray 
that other one. Quick, let me get down.” 
While, without troubling to stop the fiacre, he 
leapt out of it and shouted to the driver to pro- 
ceed to the destination he had been told of. 

“ Dieu ! ” he muttered to himself as he ran 
swiftly after the other vehicle which was still 
proceeding at a walking pace, “ she is an aristo- 
crat, even if those others are not. And if she 
has not also got some money it shall go hard 
with her. Yery hard. For, even though Margot 
herself is one, she has the devil’s own boldness 
and, at the worst, she has put a good thing in 
my way to-day. Also, she is too good, aristo- 
crat though she may be, to be injured by that 
spiteful viper.” Whereon, having by this time 
come up with the fiacre in which Adele Satigny 


LES SEPTEMBRISEURS 


295 


sat, he kept close behind it as it made its way 
slowly through the crowds that filled the Paris 
streets. 

Meanwhile, the carriage in which were George 
and Lucienne was also making its way slowly in 
another direction, and Lucienne, opening her 
eyes at last, looked up into his face and whis- 
pered : “ George. We are saved.” 

“You have saved me,” he answered. “God 
in His mercy bless and prosper you. You have 
saved a life that is yours to use as you see fit.” 

Then, putting his head out of the window, he 
bade the driver proceed to a very different place 
from that where Dubroc had said that he would 
find them later on ; namely to a spot a hundred 
yards away from Madame Verac’s shop. 


CHAPTER XXV 


DUBROC IS ABSENT 

There were other people missing — and want- 
ing — in the courtyard and neighbourhood of La 
Force that day besides the unhappy man who 
had died of fever in his cachot over night, or the 
man with the strange name of Ope who could 
not be found, and who, many thought, had 
doubtless walked out of the prison while min- 
gling with the mob, as it was afterwards cal- 
culated more than fifty prisoners had walked 
out from the various prisons on the 3d of Sep- 
tember. 

Among others Isidore Dubroc was missing; 
none but his companion, Jules, having the slight- 
est suspicion of where he might be, while many 
of his friends — especially the bourreaux who, 
like himself, had been sent there at a wage of 
twenty-four livres par tete et par jour — imagined 
that he must either have turned craven at the 
sight of what had been done and the thought of 
what was still to do, or have got more drunk 
than they were themselves. Yet, it was a pity, 
they said, a thousand pities. What things he 
had missed ! 


296 


DUBROC IS ABSENT 


297 


“ He has missed the Bourbon woman’s cry 4 Je 
suis jperdue] ” said Angelique Yoyer gloatingly ; 
“he has missed seeing Charlat fell her to the 
earth with his log of wood and Grison, the 
butcher, cut off her head as easily as he has 
often cut off a sheep’s. And now they are going 
to have the hair of the head curled and pow- 
dered, and carry that head round on a pike. 
Bah ! he is a fool.” 

“ Why did they let that woman, Tourzel, go ? ” 
asked a savage-looking, red-haired girl of one of 
the gendarmerie who passed close by her at this 
moment. “She was the governess of Capet’s 
children and was in the carriage with them when 
they fled to Yarennes. She would be dead by 
now if I had been one of the judges.” 

“ He ! Why? Because she threw dust in 
their eyes — blinded them. She asked them if 
she did wrong to carry out the duty she had 
sworn to fulfill, even though it was sworn to a 
king. And some of those judges are half drunk 
in there. They have become maudlin, and, so, 
she played on their feelings. Bah ! ” and he spat 
on the corpse of a female prisoner lying close by. 

“And why did they let the woman — that 
puante aristocrate , that duchess, the woman 
Rochefeuille, go? Did she play on their feel- 
ings ? ” 

“ No. But one of the judges had been a scul- 
lion in her father’s house when she was a girl, 
and he told the others that he remembered she 


298 


THE YEAR ONE 


was sent away from the Bien Aime’s court in 
disgrace because she would not become his mis- 
tress. That saved her.” 

“ Diable ! ” cried the girl, “ and so it should ! 
That animal’s mistress ! That salete ! Faugh ! ” 
Then she cried, “ Ha ! observe ! They lead out 
the ci-devant Comtesse de Sombreuil. Come, let 
us go and see her cut down,” and she sped away 
to see an old white-haired woman bludgeoned to 
death on a heap of other dead outside. Yet, 
still, there were many others who asked where 
Isidore Dubroc was, and said, “ The pity of it ! 
that he should be absent and miss his share in 
the great work.” 

Yet Isidore Dubroc would have laughed in his 
sleeve if he could have heard his friends lament- 
ing his absence. For he thought and believed 
that this was his day of days, the one on which 
he was going to become rich for life. He thought 
that the ten thousand livres in gold which he had 
in his pocket would very possibly be twenty 
thousand ere he had finished with the woman 
whom he had termed in his mind “a spiteful 
viper.” 

“ And then,” he muttered, as slowly he tracked 
the fiacre in which Adele Satigny was, and fol- 
lowed it as it passed through the crowds in the 
streets ; or ran a little as it lumbered along more 
freely when it had crossed the bridge by the Rue 
du Bac — “ and then I do not know if I will marry 
Margot, even though she should turn out to be 


DUBBOC IS ABSENT 


299 


one of us and no aristocrat. It is only fools who 
marry when they are rich. With twenty thou- 
sand livres in gold (he never forgot that the ten 
thousand livres he already possessed were in 
gold !) I may have a hundred wives. Yet, all 
the same, Margot shall go free, aristocrat or no 
aristocrat. She is a rare bold one, such as I love 
— and — and — aristocrat though she may be, she 
has made me rich. None shall harm Margot, 
while, if these cursed Prussians and emigres get 
here and we are undone, she may prove a true 
friend at court. One must always think of the 
future.” 

It was owing to his thoughts of the future that 
he tracked that fiacre now ; to his thoughts of 
how from the woman in that carriage a great 
deal more money might be extracted, which 
would go to swell all that he had that evening 
obtained. To these thoughts his actions were 
now owing, and to a feeling which he could not 
have explained and which, perhaps, the greatest 
philosopher could not have explained either, since 
it was a strange one to have arisen in the mind 
of so degraded a brute as he. This feeling was 
one of hate which he had conceived for Adele 
Satigny from the first moment that she stood be- 
fore him and he discerned that she, on her part, 
hated and desired to injure Lucienne ; a feeling 
combined with another and a better one to the 
effect that the girl who had not only trusted him 
but had also kept her promise as to providing 


300 


THE YEAR ONE 


him with a remunerative task, should not be 
harmed by the “ spiteful viper.” 

So — actuated both by his greed for more money 
and his determination to protect “ Margot,” aris- 
tocrat as she might be or not — he kept on, sleuth- 
hound-like, upon the track of that fiacre and 
followed it to the end of its course. 

That end came at the corner of the Rue Char- 
lemagne (to be renamed a fortnight later the 
Rue de Consolation — Consolation for what !) 
when Dubroc, still keeping a discreet distance 
behind the carriage, saw that it had stopped, and 
promptly hid himself in the porch of an old and 
empty house close by. From which place he ob- 
served that the woman inside got swiftly out 
and, tossing a piece of money into the driver’s 
hand, walked away rapidly. Yet not so rapidly 
but that Dubroc was still enabled to track her, 
to keep her well in view and, since she never 
looked back once, to creep a little closer to her 
as she neared her destination. 

That destination he soon saw was an old, solid- 
looking house shut in by four walls over which 
the fast-turning leaves of many limes and syca- 
mores peeped, and upon which walls he saw the 
legend “Liberte! Egalite! Fraternite!” freshly 
painted as well as another statement recently 
used by all good citizens; the statement that, 
66 Vous etes avertis qu ’ id Von se tutoye .” And 
he perceived also that, where once the heraldic 
devices of some noble family had stood on each 


DUBEOC IS ABSENT 


301 


of the great gate-posts, there were now figures 
of women seated upon bundles of arms and hold- 
ing in their hands pikes with the cap of liberty 
upon them. 

“ They are aristocrats,” the vagabond whis- 
pered to himself. “They protest their revolm 
tionary feelings too much ! ” 

Yet h6 was extremely puzzled at what he saw 
next, as, still, he kept watch from another coign 
of vantage which he had secured near the house 
at the moment when Adele Satigny drew close 
to the great gates. He was extremely puzzled 
at seeing a small hand-cart coming out from 
those gates, upon which were placed two or 
three valises, and which was being pushed for- 
ward by an elderly-looking man clad in plain 
rough clothes. Yet not so much puzzled, per- 
haps, at the sight of this man and at the hand- 
cart, as at the behaviour of the woman whom he 
had now been tracking for some, two or three 
hours. For she, on observing the other come 
forth as she drew near the gateway, had started 
back in considerable excitement and then, a mo- 
ment later, had gone towards the hand-cart and, 
with one hand extended and pointing to it, as he 
could very well see, had commenced an excited 
conversation with the man. 

“ Nom (Pun chien ! ” Dubroc muttered, “ she 
has caught one of her officieux in the act of flee- 
ing from even so pronounced a revolutionary 
house as this,” and he glanced at the mottoes 


302 


THE YEAK ONE 


and the figure of liberty with a saturnine grin, 
“ and she is turning him back. Diable ! she has 
a temper. La ! La ! See ! she kicks the truck 
with her foot, while, as for her eyes ! Mon 
Dieu , her eyes ! If she has still some of those 
aristocratic tendencies left of which our fathers 
have told us, she will have him beaten when he 
is inside, or, if she is short of lackeys, will beat 
him herself. The fellow was a quarter of an 
hour too late. Just one quarter ! Poor animal ! 
’Tis pity. Ha ! ” he went on, noticing everything 
and reciting it to himself in the manner of a 
chorus. “Ha! she turns him back. He enters 
the gate, and she by his side. And now — now — 
it is shut. I heard the bar fall. Mon Dieu ! I 
would give one of my louis d’ors to see and 
hear what goes on inside. I have some time 
to kill while waiting for madame 1’ aristocrate 
to come out again, or until I, becoming impa- 
tient, go in.” 

What Dubroc would have seen and heard had 
he been inside the old Hotel d’Aubray at this 
time might, perhaps, have astonished him even 
more than what he had already seen, since he 
would have discovered that the man who had 
been compelled to return into the courtyard was 
no offieieux , nor servant, but, instead, the owner 
of that mansion which he had recently endeav- 
oured to quit. 

“Beast! Vil metal” he would have heard 
Adele Satigny say. “ So it was as I suspected. 


DUBROC IS ABSENT 


303 


As I have suspected since we have been in Paris. 
You intended to escape — to — to — leave me.” 

“ Nay, nay, Adele,” the other answered, almost 
with a whine. “ Nay, you misjudge me. I was 
but about to take our effects to a safer spot than 
this, and then return for you. I ” 

“ Our effects ! ” the woman exclaimed furi- 
ously, her whole face, indeed her whole frame, 
convulsed with passion. “ Our effects ! Is one 
of those valises mine ? — is there in them one gar- 
ment, one ribband, that belongs to me ? Answer, 
valet” 

“ I was coming back for yours,” Jean Aubray 
stammered. 

“ Liar ! You were fleeing from Paris — perhaps 
from France. Of a certainty, from me.” 

“No! no ! ” the man cried — Dubroc might al- 
most have heard that cry ! — “ No — no,” and he 
approached her fawningly as he spoke. “ I love 
you ” 

“ Love me ! Faugh ! I despise, I spit upon 
your love. Lache! Poltron! Your wife is no 
sooner dead, the one bar between us is no sooner 
removed — ” it was strange how she still con- 
tinued this fiction knowing that, but two hours 
ago, Lucienne was alive — “than you endeavour 
to escape from me. Yet, beast though you are, 
you shall never escape until you have made me 
your wife. Then, if you choose, you may go 
where you will. To the guillotine, the galleys, 
the devil himself. But not before. Not before.” 


304 


THE YEAR ONE 


As she spoke there was such a tone in her 
voice, such a determination in her manner, that 
none could have doubted that she thought Lu- 
cienne was actually dead. None, except those 
who might have been able to read her thoughts, 
to see deep down into her heart, and, there, dis- 
cover a determination to in some way compass 
Lucienne’s death ere long; to cause her to be 
actually and truly as dead as she, in her fury, 
stated her to be. 

“ I do not believe Lucienne. is dead,” Aubray 
stammered, though with now a little more cour- 
age in his manner than he had previously shown. 
“I do not. There is no proof. And,” waxing 
still bolder, “ who knows but that you say so be- 
cause you wish her dead, because you think to 
make me give rash promises.” 

With a harsh, bitter cry the enraged woman 
sprang at him while scarcely knowing what she 
intended, yet feeling that she must either tear 
his eyes out or main him somehow, and, actually, 
seizing him by the neckcloth with one hand 
while with the other she gripped him by the 
throat. “ Dog ! Brute ! ” she articulated hoarsely. 
“Animal! You do not believe! Not when I 
I tell you that I saw her dead in her lover’s arms 
to-day at La Force ; not when I tell you that I 
saw him carrying her dead body away. That 
lover with whom she has been for days and 
nights in the prison — the man whom she loved 
from the first moment he tried to save her from 


DTJBROC IS ABSENT 


305 


you. Vatfen! canaille! Juif! Grec ! ” and 
she flung him violently away from her. 

“ Now,” said Aubray as he staggered back, his 
face hideous to behold and with, in his eyes, that 
little yellow-brown speck that always came to 
them in moments of extreme agitation. “Now, 
I know you lie. If she is dead as those papers 
said, you could not have seen her in that man’s 
arms. And in spite of all her faults, her pride of 
race, her contempt and scorn of me, Lucienne 
was an honest woman. She had no lover. She 
was not one who would give herself to any 
lover,” and the specks flashed like discoloured 
topazes at Adele Satigny. 

Whatever opprobrium, whatever further words 
of hatred sprang to her lips as suitable reply to 
the man’s well-understood taunt, she suppressed 
them, and, instead of giving them utterance, 
stood there gazing at him. Gazing, not as 
though seeking for some fresh form of violence 
against him either by hands or tongue, but only 
as one who gazed into some near, yet impene- 
trable, darkness. Then, suddenly, she wheeled 
round and, going towards the great gates, turned 
the key that was inside the lock ; when, holding 
it in her hand, she came back to him. 

“You will have no further opportunity of es- 
cape,” she said; “either from me or others. 
None. There is one other door opening into the 
Hue Perche ; that also I go to lock. Here you 
will stay until — until — I choose to set you free.” 


306 


THE YEAR ONE 


And again she turned on her heel and strode into 
the house itself. 

“ Adele,” he said, “ Adele, I never meant — ah 
God ! ” he cried, breaking off, “ do not look at me 
like that.” For, as he uttered her name the first 
time, she had stopped and looked at him ; had 
looked at him once as she put her foot on the 
first step, and the look had almost frozen him to 
stone. 

Hot one word of all that had passed had reached 
the ears of Dubroc, in spite of his having drawn 
even closer than before to the walls of the hotel. 
Hot one, though once he had caught the sound of 
a harsh bitter cry from within, and, later, had 
heard the great key creak in the lock. Yet this 
was enough, enough to tell him that behind those 
walls there was something going on that it be- 
hoved him to know, something that — should he 
penetrate the mystery — would be of use, of value, 
to him. Of so much value to him that he did 
not doubt it would increase his ten thousand 
livres — in gold — twofold. 

Wherefore he determined to wait patiently, to 
watch and wait here, even though he should have 
to do so through the whole of the night which 
was now close at hand, or even though he should 
in some way have to find an entrance to this 
mysterious house. 

He did wait, watching eagerly for any sign 
that might appear, listening for any sound that 


DUBEOC IS ABSENT 


307 


might be made — watching, waiting always. And, 
so, he heard the great bell of Notre Dame boom 
out seven o’clock — it was almost dark now; — 
then half-past seven ; and it was quite dark. And 
at last his impatience became more than he could 
bear. He must see, must know more than he 
could gather from this side of those white walls 
with their false, lying mottoes and sentiments — 
unmeant and unfelt — painted on them. He must 
do so ! 

Therefore he drew nearer to those walls and 
calculated their height, and scanned every stone 
of which they were composed in the hopes of 
finding a foothold. And then he laughed softly 
to himself. For what was the great ironwork of 
the gates, what the twisted bars and scrolls, the 
battle-axes and fasces worked into them, but foot- 
holds themselves ; what were such things as these 
to him who had often in his time broken into 
lonely houses by the aid of far less handy things ? 

A few moments later he was on the wall and 
had crept to the further end of the side he had 
gained, where, sheltered by the still unfallen 
bronzed leaves of the trees inside, he could gaze 
into the great flagged courtyard. He would be 
able to see well now, he whispered to himself : if 
any one came out he would see without being 
seen. That was good. Yerygood! Again he 
heard the great bell of Notre Dame, striking 
eight now — and no one came. It struck the quar- 
ter after, and still all was quiet as death itself — - 


308 


THE YEAH ONE 


it struck the half hour. And then, since he could 
observe all plainly — he saw a woman — the woman 
— come out into the courtyard. How like a cat 
she walked, he thought, how like; or perhaps, 
more like that tiger creeping through the jungle 
of which his elder brother, who had been in the 
Indies with Count Lally, had told him. How 
like ! Yet why did she creep thus ? Why ? And 
why go to that stable on the left ? What was 
she doing ? 

A moment later he saw the woman come out 
from the stable, and now he nearly fell from the 
wall in surprise. For on one shoulder she bore 
a light ladder — he could see her arm thrust 
through the rungs — in her hand she carried two 
flags. Flags having on their bright blue ground 
the silver fleur-de-lis of the cursed Capets and, 
beneath those emblems, a king’s crown. Flags 
of a kind which, he knew, had often been used a 
few years ago to adorn the houses of the aristoc- 
racy on fete days. Flags that, if found in an 
aristocrat’s house at this time, meant death. 
Death ! Nothing short of that ! 

With eyes almost starting from his head in his 
wonderment and agitation, Dubroc watched the 
woman as she now, still cat-like, still tiger-like, 
crept towards the gates ; with an amazement that 
was almost fear in its excitement, he observed 
every movement on her part. He watched her 
place the ladder against the wall and, mounting 
it, throw one of those silken royalist banners over 


DUBROC IS ABSENT 


309 


the pike held in the hand of one of the statues of 
liberty, and then, descending, and moving the 
ladder to the other side of the gate, do the same 
thing there. “ God ! ” he whispered to himself. 
“ I understand. I begin to understand.” 

But still he never took his eyes off the woman, 
he never missed one action of hers. For an hour 
he peered through the darkness and saw her 
crouching against the gate ; crouching an indis- 
tinct heap beneath, and between, those two flags 
above, which now rustled to the breath of a light 
breeze. 

For an hour he watched, as he could tell by those 
deep tones of the bell from the great cathedral. 

At which time there fell upon his ears another 
sound, one that was approaching, drawing nearer 
and nearer every moment, becoming louder and 
clearer. The sound of a drum mingling with 
that of some wind instrument ; the drum being 
however the loudest. And, now, shouts and cries 
reached his ears, too ; the shouts and cries of 
drunken, infuriated men and women. 

“ It is some of the National Guard coming back 
from the business across the water to their caserne 
here. So ! They must pass this way. Well, 
well ! We shall see.” 

Yet he did not desire to be seen himself, where- 
fore he dropped gently from the wall into the 
street, letting himself down with extended arms 
so that his fall made no noise. But, ere he did 
so, he looked once more at that woman below and 


310 


THE YEAR ONE 


saw that she crouched no longer, but, instead, 
stood erect.* Erect, yet in an attitude of strained 
attention. 

And, then, from the hiding hole to which he 
returned, he saw that he had guessed aright. 
Those beating the drum were some of the Na- 
tional Guard returning to their barracks followed 
by their usual accompaniment of scum and offal 
— now the murderers and murderesses — of the 
lowest part of the population. He saw all this, 
and a moment later he heard a voice from the 
midst of that guard cry out, “ Ventraboumine ! 
see there, above ; upon that gate. They are the 
flags of the vile Capets. Dieu ! do they court 
death ? ” 

" They are mad,” the crowd said. “ Those 
within must be mad to insult the people thus. 
Blow down the gates, search the house, burn it 
to the ground, notre capitaine. Slay all. Shall 
they mock us on such a day as this ? Our day 
of days ! ” 

“ Whose house is this ? ” a fierce voice cried 
from out of the midst of guards and rabble. 
“ Answer, some one within. Or we will fetch 
cannon from the barracks and blow it to pieces. 
Answer.” 

“ It is the house of the Marquis d’ Aubray de 
Bricourt,” a deep, gruff voice replied from inside 
the wall ; a voice that Dubroc recognised no 
matter how its owner might attempt to disguise 
it. “ Vive le Roi ! ” 


DUBROC IS ABSENT 


311 


“ Madman ! ” cried the other. “ Scoundrel ! 
Puant aristocrate. You shall lose your head for 
this. For insulting us with the name of the 
tyrant, for exhibiting his flag.” 

“ One tyrant is better than fifty thousand,” 
the gruff voice replied. And again it cried, “ Vive 
le Eoi ! A las la Nation 


CHAPTER XXYI 


THE DOMICILIARY VISIT 

There was a hush, a stillness over Paris as 
the twilight of the soft September night fell upon 
the city: a silence such as that city had only 
known once or twice before since the revolt had 
turned into a revolution, and never before, per- 
haps, in her long history. 

For, to-night, all were ordered to be indoors — 
all except the pikemen of the National Guard, 
and some mounted men of the gendarmerie who 
sat upon their horses at the corners of streets or 
by the bases of empty pedestals of statues in the 
open places: all the shops and theatres were 
shut. Upon the river there moved up and down 
boats full of armed men ; at every fast closed 
barrier — from that of Yaugirard to the one now 
known as the Benversee (because it had once 
been styled the Barriere du Trone) men of the 
Marseillais troops were placed. Moreover, every 
vehicle, no matter whether carriage or waggon, 
diligence, fiacre or cabriolet was, by order, con- 
fined to its own yard or coach-house ; upon the 
walls were posted large and staring notices con- 
taining the warning that every person who was 
312 


THE DOMICILIARY VISIT 


313 


abroad as dark came on was to repair to his own 
dwelling under pain of being considered a suspect 
and, consequently, of being arrested. Every 
place was as empty and deserted and, almost as 
quiet, as it usually was at the break of dawn in 
tranquil times. 

Yet, as the night went on, and more especially 
as midnight approached, some sounds disturbed 
the silence now and again. In the streets them- 
selves the footsteps of the pikemen were heard 
as they began to circulate; knocks, harsh and 
peremptory, sounded upon the doors ; low cries — 
orders — were shouted that a candle should be 
placed in every window. Hor, at this time, 
were there wanting even strange sounds from 
within the houses themselves. Sometimes a 
muffled dead noise would catch the ear ; a noise, 
the meaning of which was not always under- 
stood, yet was strongly suspected by some who 
had been in Paris during former domiciliary 
visits. For that dead noise was, in truth, the 
last surreptitious hammerings of a muffled mallet 
upon the nails which closed up the panels of 
some suspect’s hiding-place, or of the fastening 
of some cask or barrel in which another suspect 
had been thrust by those of his family who them- 
selves had nothing to fear. And, to such and 
similar noises, others of an even stranger nature 
were occasionally added. More than once from 
some roof or open window at the back of a 
house, a stentorian voice would shout Vive le 


314 


THE YEAR ONE 


Boi y and, next, give forth a bitter mocking laugh, 
as though defying the bloodhounds of the Legis- 
lative Assembly to discover who it was that thus 
taunted them. Sometimes, too, there would 
steal forth the sounds of musical instruments 
playing royalist tunes : once a rich baritone voice 
was heard trolling that most proscribed of all 
royalist songs, Gretry’s well-known air, “ O, Rich- 
ard, O, mon Roi.” 1 

But soon the time had come for the visits to 
commence, since it was now almost one o’clock ; 
and soon, too, the dead, flat stillness was broken 
by turmoil, by shrieks and cries that caused even 
the most timorous to show their faces at the 
windows, so that, ere long, staring eyes might 
be seen glancing out from behind the drawn-back 
curtains ; as well as backs of listeners bent in an 
attitude of attention. For that turmoil was hid- 
eous, fearful, terrifying, since it was caused by 
the cries of shrieking relatives whose proscribed 
fathers or brothers had been unearthed from be- 
hind panels and wainscots, or from cellars or 
roofs ; fathers and brothers who were now as 
surely doomed as though the guillotine’s knife 
was already descending swiftly upon their necks. 
It was a turmoil partly produced by agony and 
grief and misery on one side, and, on the other, 

1 Monsieur S6ron, procureur an Parlement , played this air on 
his flute at a slightly earlier domiciliary visit than the one here 
described. He was discovered, arrested and sent to L’Abbaye, 
where he was massacred on the 3d September. 


THE DOMICILIARY VISIT 


315 


by the savage shouts of those who had found 
their victims and were dragging them forth into 
the streets, there to be received with further 
yells of “ d la lanterne ,” or “ les aristocrates ! a 
la guillotine .” 

In the Rue St. Honore, in a street in which, on 
that night, many victims were discovered by 
the searchers, Lucienne, George Hope and Ma- 
dame Verac listened eagerly to all the excitement 
and turbulence that was going on. They knew 
that, ere daybreak, the turn of this house must 
come and they knew also that from it there was 
no escape, since those who quitted any doorway, 
or leapt from any window, at this time were cer- 
tain to meet their doom. The patrols had re- 
ceived orders to fire on those whom they saw at- 
tempting to leave the houses and, even as 
these three listened to all that was taking place 
outside, they heard the discharge of muskets at 
intervals. 

They stood all together now at the window of 
a room on the first floor of Madame Verac’s 
house — a little salon which she had for years 
been decorating and making a comfortable and 
cosy apartment ; a place in which she sometimes 
received her friends and relatives from the coun- 
try and made little occasional fetes on high days 
and holidays. But, now, there was no appear- 
ance of gaiety or pleasure about it ; the room was 
lit with only one candle guttering in the window, 


316 THE YEAR ONE 

and its owner sat weeping unrestrainedly on her 
little sofa. 

“ If,” she sobbed, “ you would but go, if you 
would both consent to hide in the back yard, you 
might yet escape. So many did escape thus on 
the night of the 10th of August, as I have since 
heard. Monsieur Maillardoz of the Swiss Guard 
was saved by being buried between two mat- 
tresses, the Marquise de ” 

“ Dear one,” exclaimed Lucienne, who . was 
holding the hand of this true friend, “ dear one, 
there is no need. I have been out amongst — 
amongst — God help me ! — my friends, t\iQ sans- 
culottes, the bourreaux and murderers, and know 
what will take place. Two National Guards will 
search each house, ostensibly for hidden arms, but 
actually to see if any of the noblesse, any of the un- 
happy king’s followers, are hidden behind panels 
or wainscots. Finding none, they will depart.” 

“ Yet, if either of you should be recognised. 
If you, monsieur, should be remembered as a late 
prisoner in La Force ” 

“ Remembered, madame,” George replied. 
“ Nay, there is little fear of that. If Lucienne is 
recognised at all it will be as one of the people 
only,” and he sighed as he spoke, recalling all the 
hateful, revolting associations which the girl had 
been forced to submit to during the past three 
weeks on his account and through her determi- 
nation to save him. 

“ But you ! You, monsieur ! Oh ! I shudder 


THE DOMICILIARY VISIT 317 

at what may happen to you within an hour if 
you are known to any.” 

“Fear nothing. I beseech you to set your 
mind at rest. Lucienne has discovered — heaven 
bless her for her courage and fearlessness ! — that 
none who were at La Force will be employed on 
this night’s work. The Assembly is ashamed — if 
such a body can know shame ! — of what they 
have done. Danton rages against the massacres, 
and especially rages against being regarded as 
the author of them — which some say he is not. 
And he has sent all the hellish crew who took 
part in those massacres at La Force and L’Ab- 
baye out of Paris. There is nothing to fear.” 

“ Yet, still, I do fear. We might have taken 
a panel from the wall, or hidden you in a cellar 
beneath a load of fruit. Oh ! oh ! ” she moaned 
piteously, “ I tremble with apprehension.” 

“ I would to God,” whispered Lucienne, “ that 
we had never brought this on you. I would 
that we had gone elsewhere on the day when we 
escaped from La Force and, so, have spared you 
this. Oh ! Agathe, if I had but known, if I had 
but thought of what trouble we might bring on 
you ” 

“Ho, no! ” Madame Verac cried, springing to 
her feet and falling on Lucienne’s neck, “ never 
say that; never. It is not for myself but for 
you and him that I fear. Ah ! ” she whispered, 
as at this moment a heavy knock was heard at 
the door below, and a voice cried, “ open. In the 


318 


THE YEAR ONE 


name of L’ Assemble© Legislative, open.” “ Ah, 
they are here, heaven help us.” 

“ Be brave,” George whispered in return. “ Be 
brave and fear nothing. We have resolved upon 
one course, rehearsed our story. Now, let me go 
down and admit those men. Be brave. You 
will, I know,” he murmured in Lucienne’s ear. 

“Always,” she answered, “always. To the 
end.” 

A moment later George had reached the door, 
upon which the knock had already been repeated 
more than once, and the two women above heard 
him draw back the bolt and ask what was re- 
quired ? 

“ Required, citizen,” some man replied. “ Why, 
little. Only to search this house for hidden arms 
and, perhaps, for other things also hidden. That, 
and the opportunity of drinking the health of all 
within and, so, away. Citizen, tell me to com- 
mence with who you are ? ” 

“I am Henri Verac, heir to madame, the pro- 
prietor, and a sailor.” 

“A sailor. Hein! Good! A sailor. One 
who serves his country well, I hope.” 

“ I hope so, too. I have done my best.” 

“ Good ! Good ! The devil himself can do 
no more, though he does not always succeed. 
Are you on leave ? ” 

“ Yes, on leave. Absent.” 

“ Good. We will drink a cup directly. Who 
is upstairs ? ” 


THE DOMICILIAKY VISIT 319 

“My aunt, Madame Verac and my sister, Mar- 
got.” 

“Margot, your sister. If she is as well fa- 
voured as you she must be pretty. Is she 
pretty ? ” 

“ I think so. But then that may be — humph ! 
— partiality ! ” 

“Well, we will see. I know a pretty girl when 
I come across one. We will soon see.” 

During this conversation, those above stairs 
had heard the men below walking about the 
passage, going into the closed shop and, then, 
clattering down the stone steps to the cellars, 
the scabbard of the National Guard and his fol- 
lowers clanking heavily all the time. And then, 
Lucienne and Madame Verac knew that they 
had finished with this portion of the house and 
were mounting the stairs to the room in which 
they were. 

“ Now for the pretty sister and the upper part 
of the house, and then away. After a drink 
lien entendu to the sister’s beaux yeux. Hein ! 
I wish all houses were like this. Then our duty 
would be light.” 

“ This,” said George, as now he led the way 
into the little salon, “ is my aunt, Madame Verac, 
and this my sister, Margot. They are a little 
nervous as you will comprehend, citizen. But 
you are a brave man, you understand how to ap- 
pease their nervousness.” 

“ Mafoi ! if they are afraid of me I shall be 


320 


THE YEAR ONE 


desolated.” And he made a clumsy bow to each 
of the two women. “Madame Verac need have 
no fear of me. Mon gars” he said to his fol- 
lower, “go make a search upstairs. Yet do it 
with the delicacy of a true citizen of the grand- 
est nation in the world. Destroy nothing, tum- 
ble nothing. As for panels, tap them — it is a 
mere matter of form,” he said to Madame Verac 
with another clumsy bow — “ a mere form. This 
is no hiding hole for aristocrats as I can well per- 
ceive. And, perhaps, madame would like to ac- 
company my man. She can show him what 
there is to see.” 

“I will go,” Madame Verac said. “ Certainly, 
I will show him all. We shall not be long. 
There is nothing to find.” 

“ One can see that with half an eye. It is a 
mere matter of form,” he repeated. “ And now, 
my pretty,” he said when Madame Verac and 
the other man had departed, “now to be gay 
for ten minutes. Citizen, you spoke truly. Your 
sister is a pretty girl. Didble , she is. Are you 
not, Margot?” and he gazed in admiration on 
her. 

“You say so, citizen,” Lucienne replied, with 
a well acted laugh, and once again playing a 
part. “ It is to be supposed, you know. You 
are not ill favoured yourself, you know, as many 
a girl has doubtless told you.” 

“ Oh ! avec ga, ma belle” the fellow answered, 
with a self-satisfied air, “ I have had my affairs, 


THE DOMICILIAKY VISIT 


321 


you know. Like most of us. Yet, Margot, you 
would do for me. You would, en verite. How 
would you like a corporal of the National Guard 
for a husband ? Hein ? ” 

“ You must ask my brother, citizen. If — if he 
approves of your courting me, I might think of 
it — some day.” 

“You might meet with a rival, you know,” 
George said, with a laugh. “ Others might love 
Margot as well as you.” 

“ Others ! Didble ! Have others loved you, 
Margot ? ” 

And “ Margot ” answered softly, 

“ Nay, hoAv can I say ? ” 

So, with her heart beating in agitation as it 
had so often beaten before at some supreme mo- 
ment of her task, Lucienne bantered with this 
man while counting every moment that passed, 
and acted, as some clever actress might act, 
while all the time her heart was almost broken. 
She counted every moment till this visitation 
should be over without any contretemps, if God 
so willed that it should be, and they be able then 
to put in practice some scheme for escaping out 
of the tempest-tossed land. If God so willed it ! 

“ Go, Margot,” George said now. “ Go, and 
get a bottle of the blue seal. You said you were 
thirsty, citizen. We must drink a bottle to- 
gether. To our next meeting.” 

“ And to Margot ! ” 

“ Ay, and to Margot.” 


322 


THE YEAR ONE 


Whereupon Lucienne left the room to descend 
to the shop in which an hour or so before Ma- 
dame Verac had placed some wine, while point- 
ing out to George and Lucienne where the bottles 
were, since, as she said, shrewdly enough, none 
who reached that house this night would go 
away until they had been plied with drink. 

“We have had more than one domiciliary 
visit in Paris, of late,” she observed. “We know 
what is expected of us. And specially expected 
when nothing can be brought against us ; noth- 
ing which ruins us and puts money in the pockets 
of these wretches.” 

Lucienne left the room, and, turning on the 
landing, was about to run swiftly down the stairs 
to the shop when she paused astonished ; indeed, 
affrighted. For the passage door was open a 
foot or so, and, standing in that passage was 
some figure with its back against the wall. Some 
person who, as it seemed to Lucienne, had drawn 
back behind the half-open door as he or she heard 
descending footsteps, and now stood there ob- 
serving whomsoever it might be who was coming 
down. 

“ Who are you ? ” Lucienne said, taking an- 
other step towards that figure, while still refrain- 
ing from going the whole depth of the stairs. 
“ Who are you ? What do you want ? ” 

But no reply was given, nor was any move- 
ment made by the person standing crouching be- 
hind the half-open door. 


THE DOMICILIARY VISIT 


323 


Yet, a moment later, there passed down the 
street another band of searchers, composed of 
men of the National Guard accompanied by 
locksmiths who were employed to break open 
doors in cases where resistance was offered, and 
by, also, men bearing torches and lanterns. And 
the light of those torches and lanterns flashed 
into the passage and through the crack where 
the door swung back, and shone upon the face of 
the intruder. While, as it did so, Lucienne, see- 
ing the light fall upon a pair of glittering, evil 
eyes, gave one shriek and fled up to the room in 
which were George and the corporal of the Na- 
tional Guard. For, in that flash, sombre though 
it was, she had recognised the eyes and also the 
features of Adele Satigny. 


CHAPTER XXYII 
l’argent un’a PAS d’odeur 

“What is it!” the two men cried as she 
reached the room. “ What ? ” While the cor- 
poral whispered soothingly, “What ails you, 
pretty one ? Yet, have no fear — I will protect 
you.” 

“ There is some woman hiding in the passage,” 
Lucienne said. “ I know not who she is.” Then, 
as the corporal ran out to see who the intruder 
might be, she whispered in George’s ear, “It is 
that woman. It is Satigny.” 

But whatever comfort, whatever soothing 
words, George would have whispered in return 
were neither uttered nor expected now, for 
scarcely had the man left the room ere he was 
in it again, while returning so violently that it 
might well have been thought he had been 
pushed back against his will. Then, a second 
later, Adele Satigny appeared in the doorway, 
girt, as she had been when Lucienne saw her 
last, with the tricolours and wearing upon her 
head the cap of liberty. 

“No,” she said, addressing Lucienne as she 
entered the room, “not hiding, as you know. 

324 


L’ARGENT UN’A PAS D’ODEUR 325 


But coming here to this place, mounting these 
stairs, as you well understand, to denounce you 
for what you truly are. Say, woman,” she cried 
stridently, as now she advanced further into the 
room and took her stand in front of the hearth, 
“ what is your name ? ” 

“Her name,” replied a voice from the door- 
way, “is Margot Yerac. And she is my niece,” 
while Madame Yerac entered the room as she 
spoke, followed by the other man of the Na- 
tional Guard. 

“ Your niece ! Your niece, Margot Yerac,” ex- 
claimed Adele Satigny, turning on the last speaker 
with the fury of a tiger. “ Your niece. Ah ! Liar ! 
Dites done , mon brave” addressing now the cor- 
poral who was staring open-mouthed at her, 
while thinking that she, too, was a fine, hand- 
some woman in her way — though a diablesse if 
there ever was one. “ Say, then, shall I tell you 
who this Margot Yerac truly is? Shall I tell 
you who this fellow, her lover is ? Oh ! mon 
Dieu , avee ga , it is drole. It should amuse 
you.” 

“You may tell all you will,” the man replied, 
none too willingly, while thinking that, after all, 
Margot was by far the most beautiful of the two, 
and that he did not desire overmuch to hear any- 
thing which might prevent future love-making 
on his part. “Tell, but be brief. We have con- 
cluded with this house. And there is still much 
work to be done to-night,” 


326 


THE YEAR ONE 


“Work! Ay, perhaps. But this will be the 
crowning piece of your work. Your chef d? oeuvre. 
And I will tell. Listen. She is no more Margot 
Verac than — than — my foot is. But, instead, she 
is by birth — birth drawn from scores of oppress- 
ors of the people — as well as by marriage with 
the present holder of the rank and title — Lu- 
cienne d’Aubray, wife, and false wife, too, of the 
ci-devant Marquis d’Aubray de Bricourt, a man 
himself denounced three days ago to the people 
by one whom he has deeply wronged ” 

“ Ah ! ” gasped Lucienne, as she stood by 
George’s side, calm, erect — still acting her part 
— still, in this, the deadliest hour of danger, 
defiant and full of scorn for her denouncer. 
“ So ! he is denounced. By whom ? By you, 
doubtless, creature” 

For a moment Adele Satigny paused, startled 
— it may be terrified — by the other’s calmness ; 
by, too, the superbness of her scorn and con- 
tempt. For Lucienne was a different woman 
from the one she had known in earlier days 
and despised for her gentleness ; the patient, 
enduring wife of Jean Aubray was another 
person, one who would contend with her now 
and bow no more in fear and trembling before 
her. 

But, still, with lips white and quivering, with 
rage at having been so turned upon, at having 
been addressed as though she were the last and 
lowest of women, she went on. 


L’ ARGENT UN ’A PAS D’ODEUR 327 


“ Yet there is more to tell. More spoil to add 
to your gibeciere of to-night. This man, this 
lover of hers with whom she has passed her time 
at La Force is ” 

“ Yes, yes,” exclaimed the corporal, interrupt- 
ing her. “ But stay awhile, ma mie. This story 
of yours is but a fairy tale ; agreeable, but — not 
true. Now, for the fireside and winter evenings 
— for a summer evening in the garden with one’s 
arm around your shapely waist, it would be a 
ravishing tale. But not here, not here.” 

“What do you mean? Answer. What do 
you mean by these buffooneries. What?” while 
as she spoke all in that room saw that she was 
deathly white, so white that the specks of foam 
upon her lips were scarcely more so than they. 
“ Answer. Explain your words.” 

“ I mean that I — I — moi qui vous pa7'le — with 
these hands,” and he held up two extremely dirty 
ones before the eyes of all in the room, “ helped 
to bury the woman called Lucienne d’Aubray 
and styled, once, la Marquise d’Aubray de Bri- 
court. I buried her in the Seine, if that is burial. 
The morning after the Jour St. Laurent. By 
order, being in charge of the party, I set out to 
remove those who had — well ! met with acci- 
dents. And I searched her, too. Finding this. 
It is an Acte d' accusation and you shall read it. 
Ma douce , you must tell us a better story than 
that,” and he grinned at Adele Satigny. 

“ Let me tell it,” a deep, rough voice exclaimed 


328 


THE YEAR ONE 


from the landing. “ Let me tell it. The story 
of how this woman, the real ci-devant Marquise 
d’Aubray de Bricourt denounced her husband 
and how he, as they captured him in his house, 
uttered only one sentence, ‘ My wife has done 
this.’ ” 

Then, following the voice, Isidore Dubroc 
entered the room. 

He strode in with a laugh upon his face, a 
hearty greeting to Lucienne — he laid, indeed, 
his hand upon her shoulder and patted it, 
and she did not flinch or show disgust — he 
snapped his fingers gleefully, saying, “ Petite 
Margot, so you are busy again with the good 
work of the people. Hein ! petite vengeresse ! ” 
he told her that he had been looking for her all 
over Paris, that she had not kissed him once for 
five days, that she was a little traitress, a vixen, 
a grillarde. 

It seemed, indeed, that Lucienne was not the 
only person lost to the French stage ! For the 
moment, Dubroc took no notice of Adele Satigny 
who was standing then close by him, muttering, 
“ Thief. Extortioner. Gallows-bird,” through 
those white, those almost marble lips. 

But, after Lucienne had made some degree of 
effort to fall in with his rude familiarities and to 
— Heaven help her ! — appear rejoiced at seeing 
him again ; after, too, he had nodded as a com- 
rade ought to do to the corporal of the National 
Guard, had shaken George violently by the hand 


L’ABGENT UN’A PAS D’ODEUK 329 


and had bowed to Madame Verac, he turned 
round on Adele Satigny and said : 

“ What did I hear Madame la Marquise say, 
what ” 

“ I am no marquise. And you know it. 
Animal ! ” 

“Hsh! Hsh! Hsh! We are used to such 
denials now,” Dubroc exclaimed, half laughingly, 
half menacingly. “ So used to them. Tete d'un 
chien ! there are no aristocrats lurking in Paris 
who will acknowledge themselves to be such 
now ! Are there, won chou ? ” And he slapped 
the corporal on the back, who nodded confirma- 
tion of his words. 

“ Not one ! Eot one ! ” Dubroc went on. 
“ But,” and now, as he regarded the woman, his 
tone became more threatening, while his banter 
seemed to be turning into something more sullen 
and, consequently, something more to be dreaded, 
“ but what did I hear as I came up these stairs 
after having tracked you for days, Madame la 
Marquise ? ” 

“I spit at you. I defy you. Vagabond!” 
hissed Adele Satigny. 

“ What did I hear ? ” Dubroc went on. “ My 
girl denounced by this woman as being what she 
is herself ; my little brave girl of our section de- 
nounced by that,” he cried, pointing his finger 
in the other woman’s face. “ By her who be- 
trayed Jean Aubray to your brave force, my 
comrade ; who placed Capet’s flags upon her hus- 


330 


THE YEAR ONE 


band’s house, who cried 6 Vive le RoiJ who sent 
him to his doom. By her who came to the 
prison to ” 

“ This man,” cried Adele Satigny, beside her- 
self, yet more beside herself with rage than fear, 
though she had cause for fear and knew it, “ this 
man is a thief, an extorter of money, a villain. If 
I had had money to give him he would have 
helped me as he helped that — that ” 

But again Dub roc’s voice was heard deadening 
hers, silencing it, blotting out whatever of foul 
abuse the woman was about to heap on Lu- 
cienne’s head. 

“ I have never lost sight of her since that night,” 
he went on, “though more than once she has 
baffled me by lying hid within doors. For I 
knew she meditated evil to you, sweet one,” and 
his eyes fell softly — if such a thing could be — on 
Lucienne’s face. “ But to-night she came forth 
intent on injuring you, on denouncing you. It 
would have done no harm since all in our section 
know 3^ou for a brave little patriot and the affi- 
anced of Isidore Dubroc. But, in doing so — her 
own time has come. Citizen corporal of our 
brave National Guard, I accuse this woman of 
being the wife of ” 

But the sentence was not finished. It was 
never to be finished. 

For, even at the very moment when Lucienne 
could hear no more ; when, no matter what 
might be the result, no matter how all her plans 



DOG, HOUND," SHK CRIED, “ SO MUCH FOR YOUR ACCUSATION.” 




















































. 













































. 
























, 












































L’ARGENT UN’A PAS D’ODEUK 331 


must at last fall to the ground — she was about to 
cry, “No, no,” and, in her nobility of nature, 
about to avow herself the true marquise, there 
came an awful interruption. One that none had 
foreseen or dreamed of. 

Adele Satigny had never moved from the spot 
on which she had been standing from the first, 
but, instead, had been steadfastly regarding this 
man as he denounced her. With eyes glittering 
as a snake’s eyes glitter, she had stood there con- 
fronting him, her body swaying a little, her 
hands clenching and unclenching nervously, her 
face a very hell of hate. And then, as Dubroc 
uttered those words, “ I accuse this woman of be- 
ing the wife of — ” there had issued from 
Adele Satigny ’s lips a sound, harsh and raucous, a 
sound that was half a curse and half an execra- 
tion : her body had swayed more forward, her 
right hand had been thrust out swift as the light- 
ning’s flash. And that hand had seized the hilt 
of the corporal’s sword, had torn it from its scab- 
bard and, ere any present could guess her inten- 
tion, had passed it through Dubroc’s body. 

“ Dog ! Hound ! ” she cried, beside herself, de- 
mented — mad — raving with passion. “Dog, so 
much for your accusation,” and, as she spoke, she 
stamped on the fallen man’s face. 

An hour later, Lucienne, Madame Verac, and 
George were alone in that house, the mob which 
had assembled outside in treble force on hearing 


332 


THE YEAR ONE 


that a murder had been committed within it had 
dispersed — murders open or secret were common 
enough at that period and caused but a momen- 
tary flutter of excitement ! — the corporal and his 
man had departed. What story this fellow 
would have told to the commissaries appointed 
by the Assembly to superintend the domiciliary 
visits of the forty-eight sections is doubtful, had 
not one circumstance occurred which caused him 
to muse over the invention of one which should 
be one very far from the actual truth. For, in 
searching Dubroc’s clothes to find out exactly 
who and what he was and where he lived, he 
had come across such a remarkable discovery 
that he instantly set about puzzling his brains as 
to how the whole affair might be enveloped in 
as much silence as possible if not in total mys- 
tery. He had found the bag containing the ten 
thousand livres in gold, and he at once made up 
his mind that those livres should become his 
property. Fortunately for him, and for the suc- 
cess of that resolution, he was alone in the little 
salon with the body at the time of his discovery, 
since Lucienne had been led away to another 
room by George and Madame Yerac, while the 
other man, after binding Adele Satigny’s hands, 
had dragged her into a cupboard and then 
locked her in. 

“ The money is therefore mine,” the corporal 
whispered to himself. “Mine, provided I can 
hold my tongue. Yet, yet — how is it to be 


L’ ARGENT UN’A PAS D’ODEUR 333 


done ? That wretch may not know this fellow 
had it on him — did she not say she had nothing 
wherewith to bribe him further? — yet she will tell 
her tale when tried to-morrow. And then — why 
then — that tale may be the true one ; this other 
may be the veritable marquise, and, if so, she 
must be the one who gave the money. It will 
all be told — all, all. I shall be robbed.” For, 
to this virtuous and incorruptible servant of the 
revolution, such a contingency would naturally 
appear as nothing short of robbery. 

“ I could have loved that one called Margot,” 
the man went on, “ ay, very well I could, in spite 
of her being more like a real marquise than the 
black one. She has more the air, more the 
hauteur of those accursed aristocrats. Yet, love 
must not stand in the way of — well ! of — a 
fortune.” (It was strange how this vagabond 
had the same ideas as those possessed by that 
other one now lying dead at his feet ; or, per- 
haps, it was not strange !) “ I have the money. 

It is a fortune. Out of France I could double, 
treble it ; live on it for years. A fig for the 
nation ! ” 

He called the other man now, after he had 
dropped the money in his pocket, and, when the 
subordinate came, he gave him his orders. 

“ That wretch, that atrocious woman,” he said, 
wagging his head virtuously, “ must be sent be- 
fore the Tribunal. Go you, therefore, and bid 
them come and take her. Meanwhile, I will 


334 


THE YEAR ONE 


guard the house. Vite mon gars, leave me not 
alone too long with this poor victim.” 

“ Good, my corporal, good. The others must 
continue the visitations hereabouts. I fly. I 
will not be long. You will not let her escape ? ” 

“Have no fear. I am a faithful watchdog.” 

Wherefore the other man sped away, leaving 
his superior in charge of the murderess. 

When he was gone, when he had been gone 
sufficiently long to be out of reach, the corporal 
adjusted his scarf, set the cockade straight in his 
hat and went out into the passage and to the 
cupboard where Adele Satigny was a prisoner. 

“ Assassin,” he whispered outside, “ your crimes 
will soon be punished now. You have slain a 
noble son of the nation. Prepare for your fate.” 
But from the other side of that door there came 
no reply nor sound, or only one sound, and that 
such as a snarling wolf might have made. 

Then the corporal went softly down the stairs 
and out into the now empty street, and hummed 
a bar of the “ Marseillaise ” and looked threaten- 
ingly at one or two people shivering with fear at 
the sight of him, and so went upon his way. 
But, as he was missing forever afterwards and 
never seen nor heard of again, it was feared by 
many that on that night of tumult some disaster 
must have happened to one of the bravest and 
most trustworthy sons of France. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


A BAS LA JUSTICE 

Daybkeak was at hand ; the chill, cool day- 
break of a September morning, when Madame 
Verac crept slowly down the stairs of her house 
and, after glancing up and down the Rue St. 
Honore as well as into alleys and courts, closed 
the street door after her and locked it. Then 
she walked swiftly off in the direction of the 
river, while looking neither to right nor left of 
her. The house was, consequently, left deserted, 
since Adele Satigny had been fetched away and 
taken to the conciergerie half an hour after the 
corporal of the National Guard had quitted the 
house (his absence being much commented on 
and discussed by the party brought by his fol- 
lower) ; the body of Dubroc had been thrown 
into a charrette and sent to a cemetery, and George 
and Lucienne had departed five minutes earlier. 

“Pray heaven,” Madame Verac muttered to 
herself, “they find the way to Vaugirard and to 
the house of Madame la Duchesse. She is safe 
from further molestation for the present, at least. 
And, perhaps, for always. A lady who dared to 
refuse the love of a king — and such a king as the 
last Louis ! — is safe from them. It was heaven’s 
mercy that that wretch at La Force had been her 
335 


336 THE YEAR ONE 

father’s servant and remembered what she had 
done.” 

After the tragedy that had taken place in the 
house in the Rue St. Honore, and especially after 
they recognised that they were left alone and 
unmolested, either by the corporal who had van- 
ished, or the people who came to fetch away the 
living Adele Satigny and the dead body of Isi- 
dore Dubroc, those three rapidly formed their 
plans for escaping themselves. 

“ For it is certain,” said George to Lucienne, 
who was now once more herself and still resolute 
to continue her efforts to place him out of dan- 
ger, “ that we shall not be safe here long. That 
woman, Satigny, will repeat her story before 
any Tribunal to which she is sent — there is no 
Dubroc now to tell his tale and contradict her — 
while, also,” and he faltered a little and hesi- 
tated, “ there is — one — other. The man ” 

“ — she betrayed,” exclaimed Lucienne. “ The 
man who is, to my eternal shame ! — my husband. 
Yes,” she continued. “ Yes. We must go. Go, 
at once. But where? Where? Where can we 
find shelter now ? ” 

“ At the Duchesse de Rochefeuille’s ! At Yau- 
girard!” exclaimed Madame Yerac. “There 
alone, if you can only reach it. They — she and 
the Duke — have a villa there to which they often 
went in the summer before the troubles began. 
She is there now and she is safe. You know, 
you heard, why.” 


A BAS LA JUSTICE 


337 


“Yet,” said George, “if we go there we may 
but bring fresh trouble on her. If it becomes 
known, as it may do now, that Lucienne is alive, 
the Duchesse will be sheltering a would-be emi- 
gree, one who has escaped from prison. While, 
if she were to shelter me — an Englishman, and 
one who has fought against their soldiers and 
sailors when the two countries are ostensibly at 
peace — it would cause an immediate signal to be 
made for her doom. Nothing could save her 
again.” 

“You are always the same; always,” said 
Lucienne, gazing up into his eyes. “ Your 
thoughts are always for others. Yet,” she con- 
tinued, “ what you say now is absolutely the 
case. We must not place Madame de Koche- 
feuille in any further peril.” 

“God knows,” said Madame Verac, “it is not 
I who would do so. I have known and served 
her — loved her — for too long. But, if you would 
go on soon; if you, sweet one,” to Lucienne, 
“ could travel almost directly, to-morrow, say, or 
the next day ” 

“ I could travel to the world’s end to-morrow, 
ay, or to-day, to put this brave friend of mine in 
safety. As for myself, it matters not.” 

“ It matters so much,” George said, “ that I go 
nowhere except with you. If I escape out of 
France it is only on condition that we escape to- 
gether. Then, when we are free, in Jersey, or 
Holland ” 


338 


THE YEAR ONE 


“ Yes — then ? ” asked Lucienne, with one swift 
glance at him. “ Then ? What then ? ” 

But he had no answer to give to either glance 
or question. 

“There is a way of getting out of Paris,” 
Madame Verac said, “ from Yaugirard, from the 

Duchesse’s house ” 

“ Is there no barrier ? ” 

“ Yes, there is a barrier. But in the new city 
walls 1 there are holes. There is one at the foot 
of madame’s garden which is bounded by the 
wall, outside of which there grows a mass of 
bushes and weeds. Tiens ! those who creep 
through that hole and find themselves in those 
bushes have the open country before them. It 
has been used by more than one person since the 
fall of the Bastille.” 

“ You hear, Lucienne,” George said. “ That 
way lies a chance for freedom. For escape out 
of Paris if not France. Will you take it ? ” 

“ Will you ? Will you take it with me ? ” 

That they decided to avail themselves of this 
opportunity may be gathered, since now, as day- 
break approached, the house in the Rue St. 
Honore was deserted, that all had quitted it by 
that time. Yet of those three who, not knowing 
each other three months before, had now become 
such friends, no two went together. For, once, 

1 They were really Custom’s walls which superseded, as well 
as added, to the old fortifications and preceded those of 1841. 
They were commenced in 1784 by Calonne. 


A BAS LA JUSTICE 


339 


Madame Verac had told them the exact route 
which they must take — since both were strangers 
to Paris — they left the house separately, George 
going first, Lucienne next, and their friend and 
almost saviour, last. The latter set out dressed 
as she had always been, namely, as a homely 
bourgeoise of Paris — yet with the hateful red cap 
upon her head — Lucienne went dressed as she had 
been since first she left the gardens of the Tuil- 
eries a new woman, a woman of the people; 
while George who, in the time which they had 
spent at Rennes, had found an opportunity of 
obtaining other clothes than those which he had 
worn since the night he finally left the “ Dragon,” 
was now dressed as a simple country bourgeois. 

So, following each other at intervals, though 
not at such distant ones as to prevent them from 
keeping each other in sight, they set out for Vau- 
girard, directing first their steps towards the 
Pont Neuf, and passing through the Place du 
Carrousel, over which the dawn was now break- 
ing fast. It was breaking fast and the clocks 
were striking half-past six as George arrived at 
this spot ; the sun was already glittering on the 
topmost towers of the Tour St. Jacques ; the day 
was at hand. Soon, too, its beams would reach 
the topmost planks of a thing that stood up grim 
and ghastly in the morning light ; a thing com- 
posed of two tall upright beams and a crossbeam, 
and having at this moment a rope hanging loosely 
from the top. A thing around which the va- 


340 


THE YEAR ONE 


grant dogs of Paris slept nightly, refusing to be 
driven away, or, when they did not sleep, sniffed 
continuously at its base, or rostrum, to which 
eight steps led up. Now, as George entered this 
place, followed at a distance of some two hun- 
dred yards by Lucienne, he saw that it was full 
of a swiftly gathering crowd ; a crowd which, in 
spite of most of its members having been up all 
night engaged in the diversions of the domiciliary 
visit and the sport offered thereby, was pouring 
out of side streets towards the spot, and especially 
from those streets which led from the St. Antoine 
quarter. And he saw, also, that, in front of that 
ghastly looking structure whose meaning he could 
guess, or thought he could, two old men and a 
woman were placing common chairs in rows, and 
surrounding them with cords as though to bar 
admission to the enclosed space. He observed, 
too, that other men had arrived with barrows on 
which were, in some instances, autumn fruit and, 
in others, brioches , while more men had trays on 
which were glasses and caraffes of lemonade ; 
another had a truck on which was a metal ma- 
chine containing hot coffee and with a little fur- 
nace beneath it. But that which George could 
not at first understand the meaning of, was the 
sight of a man who passed close to him carrying 
upon a large tray some little machines which 
were the exact counterpart of that hideous thing 
standing up weird and ghastly in the midst of 
the crowd, through which a detachment of sol- 


A BAS LA JUSTICE 


341 


diers was now forcing its way. This man bore 
also a basket on the tray from which the noise of 
many birds chirping and twittering was heard, 
while, as he passed along, he cried “ Voyez la 
consolation. Pendant Vlieure d'attente. La con- 
solation. Pour vous annuser 

George was about to ask a bystander what 
this could mean, or signify, when he saw that 
there was no need to do so. A man in the crowd 
had given the vendor of those little machines a 
silver coin and had received in return one of the 
models and also three sparrows taken from the 
basket. And then, with the assistance of a 
friend, the fiendish purchaser — grinning and 
chuckling as he did so ! — held one of those spar- 
rows over the lower part of the machine, the 
other pulled a string, a little knife fell swiftly 
from above and the bird, with its head half 
struck off, (since the feathers of its neck had pre- 
viously been plucked so as to make the business 
easier) was thrown to the ground. Such was 
the “ consolation ” of some of those wild beasts 
waiting in that crowd for a finer and more ex- 
hilarating sight ! 

Sick at heart as George was (while fascinated 
as human beings are fascinated by sights and 
deeds that are unfamiliar and horrible, although 
loathsome) he had still never lost sight of 
Lucienne, but had stood in that fast gathering 
crowd with his eyes always turned in her direc- 
tion. But now he knew that he must not leave 


342 


THE YEAR ONE 


her alone, that in such a scene as this, a scene 
that would and must grow more terrible ere 
long, he should be by her side no matter though 
danger might come to them at any moment from 
being seen together. He resolved, therefore, 
that he would make his way to her, take her out 
of this crowd of savages, and then cross by some 
other bridge if there was one — a thing he was not 
sure of, — or take refuge in some other part of 
Paris until this hideous spectacle that was to be 
had ceased. He must reach her, he must be by 
her side once more, no matter whether that com- 
panionship might arouse suspicions or not if they 
should be recognised by any one. Now, in this 
seething, excited mob, he must not leave her 
alone ! 

He began, consequently, to make his way to 
her, while working in and out between groups of 
people chattering and grinning to each other, or 
passing by those who refused to budge an inch 
from their standpoint, but gradually drawing 
nearer to Lucienne with every step he took. 
And, as he went, he caught scraps of heated con- 
versation, of mutterings and whispers so that, if 
it had been possible for him to doubt what all 
were here for — which it was not — those doubts 
would have been easily resolved. 

“ They begin early to-day,” whispered a hag 
by whom he was passing to a cadaverous girl by 
her side. 66 There are three batches to be shaved. 
Three ! It will be ten o’clock ere all are finished 


A BAS LA JUSTICE 


343 


off.” “ They are all aristocrats,” a man said with 
a laugh. “ Let us see if they can die as boldly as 
their victims did in the past.” “ Are there any 
women ? ” a hunchback asked eagerly of his 
neighbour. “ I have never seen a woman die. 
Perhaps I may to-day.” Then, above all their 
talk and all the noise, there arose a shout, the 
clapping of many hands; whistling, shrieking 
and singing. A young, good-looking man 
dressed in black had mounted the platform of the 
guillotine, had placed a shiny saw-shaped thing 
within a frame which he had lowered from the 
crossbeam by the cord, and was pulling it up 
and down by that cord as though to test its fit- 
ness for the work it had soon to do. 

“ Bravo. Bravo, Sanson,” the mob cried. “ Try 
it on your thumb. See that it is sharp. Dieu ! 
what a machine it is. It slices heads as a knife 
slices carrots.” 

Meanwhile George had at last reached Luci- 
enne, he was by her side and stood there holding 
her hand in his. “Let us go,” she whispered, 
“let us get away from here, at all costs. We 
have seen enough of horrors, surely we need see 
no more.” 

“It is impossible to move,” he replied, “im- 
possible. Look back, Lucienne. As far as one 
can see, the place is filled with one compact 
mass. While, in front of us, there is another 
mass becoming more dense every moment. And, 
in the middle, that awful thing — the guillotine.” 


344 : 


THE YEAK ONE 


“ Keep close to me, George. Hold my hand 
always. And— -and— at the moment when any- 
thing occurs I must turn my head away or hide 
my face on your breast. George, I can bear no 
more. That scene in the garden on the night we 
reached Paris, the terrors of La Force have been 
enough ” 

But now her voice was drowned by a roar 
from the crowd, an awful bellow, such as a thou- 
sand wild beasts rushing on some prey that they 
had scented might make. A roar that seemed 
to rise past the windows of the houses surround- 
ing the Place du Carrousel — windows that were 
full of people who laughed and shrieked and 
screamed in unison with those below — as well as 
up over the roof; that rose over, too, the pin- 
nacles of the Tour St. Jacques and of the Louvre. 
“ They come. They come, the first batch comes,” 
hundreds of voices cried. “ Be ready, Sanson,” 
yelled others. “ Have the little coutelas ready.” 
While, penetrating through all other sounds, 
there arose the strains of “ La Carmagnole ” and 
“ La Marseillaise.” And, as this was going on, 
the portion of the crowd among which Lucienne 
and George stood surged back somewhat, it be- 
ing forced to do so by a squadron of the mounted 
gendarmerie who came down a side street leading 
to the great Place , while they were followed by 
some men of the National Guard and they, in 
their turn, by — the victims. 

Eight victims in a charrette, all seated and 


* 


A BAS LA JUSTICE 


345 


having their hands tied behind their backs, and 
with their back hair cut away from their necks. 
Eight men, some young, some old, but with not 
one female amongst them — they came later ! — to 
gratify the desire of the hunchback who longed 
to see a woman die. In that charrette all those 
victims were brave men. There was not a 
coward in the number. For they sang, “ Notre 
your de victoire est arrive” and laughed and 
jeered scornfully at the crowd ; they paused and 
shouted “ Vive le Hoi , d has les sans-culottes : ” to 
one in that crowd who shouted “ A la guillotine” 
while a middle-aged man sitting in the charrette, 
a man who looked as though he had been a 
soldier, replied with superb, with splendid con- 
tempt, 

“ On-y-va, canaille. Taisez vous ” 

And then, as the cart passed close by where 
George and Lucienne stood, unable to move, the 
latter gave a little choking sob, a gasp, and mut- 
tered to her companion, “ Oh, look, look ! It is 
he. Could they not spare such a boy as that ? ” 

But George had already seen him to whom she 
referred : he had recognised Baoul de Geneste. 

And he had seen them, too. Upon his laugh- 
ing, haughty face, as he gazed contemptuously at 
those who were looking at him and his com- 
panions in misfortune, there came a glance of 
recognition, a glance also of surprise — the out- 
come doubtless of his astonishment at seeing 
them free and girt with the signs of the Revolu- 


346 


THE YEAH ONE 


tion. Yet, in a moment he controlled himself 
while understanding surely the danger that 
recognition might bring to them : another mo- 
ment and, as the charrette passed by where his 
whilom fellow-prisoners stood, he was singing 
again in concert with his fellow-victims. 

“Look away, Lucienne,” George said, “look 
away. He is the first to mount the scaffold. 
He shouts ‘ Vive le Eoi 9 to the last ; as they 
seize him he cries 6 A has la Nation •? Brave lad. 
Brave, noble lad.” 

And then, though it was drowned a moment 
later in another long, sickening roar — they heard 
a loud click such as a clock makes shortly ere it 
strikes ; a whirr such as the covey makes as it 
leaves the stubble ; a thud such as none on earth 
have ever listened to who have not stood near 
and heard the fall of the guillotine’s knife. 

The last of the de Genestes had gone to join 
his ancestors. He died as French gentlemen, as 
Frenchmen knew how to die before the Revolu- 
tion left a leprosy upon • their natures, which ap- 
pears to have changed them into a different order 
of beings from what their forefathers were. 

Still the savages howled and roared, as click 
and whirr and thud were heard again and again ; 
and then there came another surging movement 
of that mass, amongst which were George and 
Lucienne ; more shouts and cries were heard in 
the side street. Something else was coming down 
that street preceded by a body of the National 


A BAS LA JUSTICE 


347 


Guard. Something that caused George to once 
more bid his companion hide her face. And it 
was well he did so, since of all the sights of the 
morning that something was a sight least fit for 
her to see. 

Another charrette passed by, yet with no vic- 
tims seated in it, but with, instead, a dead man 
lying full length along it ; a man who, condemned 
to suffer with those who had but just now died, 
had in craven fear or furious rage taken his own 
life. But, as it was later, in the case of Dufriche- 
Valaze who should have died upon the scaffold 
with Yergniaud and Brissot, and also in the case 
of Lebas, who should have died with Robespierre, 
as well as in the case of other suicides, this man 
was not to escape the journey to the place of ex- 
ecution, nor the unheard execrations of those who 
desired their full and unabridged feast of horror. 
The people were not to be baulked of their prey. 

So that, as it turned out, the people — though 
they were baulked of seeing the man die before 
their eyes — did at least see the dead body of Jean 
Aubray brought to the scaffold, and, thus, were 
perhaps content. For at least the sight was a 
variant on what they had already witnessed that 
morning and what, in the months and years to 
come, they were to witness until they grew sick 
through repletion. 

But Lucienne saw nothing, and George thanked 
God that it was so. 


CHAPTER XXIX 

THE GRIEFS OF LONG AGO 


“Sorrows that are sorrows still 
Lose the hitter taste of woe. 

Nothing’s altogether ill 
In the griefs of long ago.” 

Ten years had passed since George and Lu- 
cienne, leaving the Place du Carrousel, made their 
way to the Duchesse de Rochefeuille’s villa at 
Yaugirard and, at last, without further adventure, 
out of France. Ten years during which the Rev- 
olution with its mock forms of government, its 
mock tribunals, its tradesmen-judges, its murder- 
ers and murderesses, was gone. And gone to 
join their victims, gone by the same dark road 
that those victims had travelled, were the men 
who had slaughtered them ruthlessly. The guil- 
lotine had seized upon all alike, and now the Ter- 
ror was almost forgotten — that Terror, which 
surely was none to those who died so gallantly 
for sins committed ere they were born by ances- 
tors whom they had never known. A new era 
had arrived. Napoleon was first consul, and, as 
yet, but dreamt of all that he would some day 
attempt and of all that he would some day 
accomplish, while never dreaming at all of what 
would be the end of his schemes. The new cen- 
348 


THE GEIEFS OF LONG AGO 349 


tury was two years old, the Peace of Amiens 
(with England, Spain and Holland) was signed. 

Three months after that peace was made, upon 
a bright June afternoon, an English man-of-war 
dropped anchor olf the village of de Bricourt ; 
her sails were instantly furled and her yards 
squared with royal navy precision, and, a quarter 
of an hour later, the captain’s gig came alongside 
the port gangway, and, the companion ladder 
being lowered, the captain descended to the boat. 
Yet he was not alone, since he was accompanied 
by a tall fair lady and a little child, a girl fair as 
her mother, yet with the regular features of her 
father. 

With easy yet powerful strokes the boat, steered 
by the officer, soon reached the shore and then, 
running into a little creek which ran through the 
dunes to the sea, was made fast to a stake in the 
bank, after which the party went on shore. 

“ Ten years, sweetheart,” the captain said to 
his wife, as he gave her his arm while taking the 
little child by the hand : “ ten years. Almost to 
the very day, to the very hour. Nay, nay,” he 
said, seeing that there were tears in his compan- 
ion’s eyes ; “ do not weep, Lucienne. Think what 
those ten years have been for us ; the happiness 
they have brought to us,” while, as he spoke, he 
glanced down fondly at the child. 

“If I shed tears,” Lucienne said, “they are 
those of happiness. Ah ! George, who would 
have dreamt or dared to hope in those days 


350 


THE YEAR ONE 


which seem so far off that we should ever set foot 
in freedom on these shores again.” 

Then, with a faint smile on her face, she said, 
“ See, there is the church behind which we first 
met ; the spot where I, in my selfishness, almost 
brought destruction on you.” 

“You brought me yourself,” he murmured; 
“ the sweetest, truest woman God ever sent to 
man. Ah ! Lucienne, when I think of all you en- 
dured for me, of how you herded with those 
wretches, sinking your own pure nature ” 

“ Hush. Hush,” she said. “ Oh ! hush. I 
would have given my soul to save you, to repay 
you for all that you had attempted for me.” 

They passed the ruined church, an edifice only 
frequented by the bats and owls now, and, reach- 
ing the village, gave orders for some vehicle to 
be prepared which would take them to the Chateau 
d’Aubray de Bricourt and back again. 

“ Monsieur and madame desire to see the ruined 
chateau,” the one innkeeper of the place said, his 
eyes fixed enquiringly upon Lucienne. Then he 
added, “ Mon Dieu ! if Madame la Marquise had 
not died in Paris as we all know, I should have 
said she stood before me. But, alas ! Madame is 
dead.” 

But neither Lucienne nor George made any 
reply to his remarks, remembering that when 
they were brought ashore prisoners ten years ago 
this man, wearing then a cap of liberty, had 
stood and looked at them unpityingly. 


THE GRIEFS OF LONG AGO 351 


It was, indeed, a ruined chateau at which they 
gazed as the ramshackle country cart — which the 
landlord called a cabriolet — drove up the road 
leading through the grounds to the front of the 
house. Ruined by fire which had been set to it 
by the Parisian regiments sent down into the 
neighbourhood in ’93, and, naturally, never re- 
stored. For when the news reached Lucienne’s 
ears that her old family house had been burnt 
down — with the exception of its walls and stone 
staircases, which nothing could destroy — she was 
living in London with her child, then a baby, 
and George was in the East Indies. Nor, had 
they had any desire to restore it upon his return, 
could they have done so. They had nothing but 
George’s pay and some small private means 
which he possessed to live upon ; they were in 
truth none too well off. Yet they were happy, 
they loved each other fondly, madly, and, had it 
not been that his profession forced them to be so 
much apart, they would have desired nothing 
further. 

“ It is indeed a ruin,” George said. “ The pity 
of it. The pity of it.” 

“We have each other,” she whispered, — “and 
her,” looking down at the child who was picking 
flowers on the spot where once her mother and 
father had stood prisoners and manacled. 

As they mounted the great stone steps they 
saw how great the ruin was. The windows were 
nothing but great gaping orifices, the wooden 


352 


THE YEAR ONE 


floors were all gone, the roof had fallen in — the 
whole house was one vast open space, (except for 
the surrounding walls and the stone staircases) 
into which the sun poured when noon was 
passed and into which the stars looked down at 
night. 

All, too, was gone that had once formed the 
costly furniture and adornment of that great 
chateau of early days ; gone, or lying in charred 
fragments on the earth ; the owls had built there, 
too, as in the church a mile away ; where once 
pictures and arms and banners had hung, weeds 
and wild flowers were growing. 

“ And he too is gone,” said Lucienne gazing up 
above the heavy stone landing of the first flight ; 
“ he who was the first known of our line.” 

Then she took her husband’s hand and let 
her glance rest upon the place where she knew 
the old, dark mediaeval painted picture of Ru 
d’Aubray had once hung in its iron frame. She 
gazed at it long and uninterruptedly, — George 
saying no word that should disturb her medita- 
tions ; and as she did so it seemed as if her lips 
were murmuring some form of supplication. As, 
perhaps, they were! Who knows! Perhaps 
they murmured a supplication that she in whose 
veins ran the blood of the warrior whose picture 
had hung for centuries on those now blackened 
walls, might be forgiven for what she had done 
out of her compassion, her regret — her love ! — 
for him who had striven so nobly for her. Per- 


THE GRIEFS OF LONG AGO 353 


haps she murmured supplications for forgiveness 
from all those who had sprung from the line he 
founded; for forgiveness because, in her great 
trial, her great attempt, she had stooped to cloak 
her own nobility, her own patrician descent, be- 
neath so foul a garb as that of the Revolution. 
Who knows ! 

But, at last, she lowered her eyes from the 
vacant spot and, still holding her husband’s hand 
while gazing into his eyes — full of love and pride 
for her — she said, once more, 

“ He too, is gone. Even that picture is gone. 
The picture of one who was a knight, a paladin. 
Of one who strove in noble rivalry with Cour- 
tenai, if all legends are true, as to who should be 
king of that old Byzantine city. He is gone as 
all the d’Aubrays are gone at last.” 

“ As all old France is gone, dear one, never 
perhaps to return.” 

“ Ah, well,” she whispered, drawing closer to 
him now as they stood alone within her old 
ruined home, and while lifting up her pure, sweet 
lips to his, “ ah, well ! What matters it ? 
What! since I have always near me now my 
knight — ?ny paladin — my king.” 


THE END 







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sept ma 


AUG 29 190| 



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